The Absolute Basic
by aujourd'hui
Summary: "This is agony, but it's still a thrill for me. This could end in tragedy. Pour yourself all over." (Paloma Faith). A challenge, a risk, a job. Stormy eyes, clever lips, a burning voice. Clara Etheridge had stayed away, but now she was being pulled right back into that pit of terror and dreams. Eames/OC. A/Ari.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: Inception belongs to Christopher Nolan and Warner Bros.**

_**The Absolute Basic**_

**Chapter One**

"So, this is just another dream?"

A perfect stretch of striking blue dominated over the animated city of Hong Kong. The white, blinding sun hung in the corner of the sky, slowly weaving its way behind ambitious, reaching skyscrapers that reflected its rays in all directions. As always, the heat seemed to hover just above an agreeable level, and, sure enough, Clara Etheridge could already feel beads of perspiration appear on her forehead.

Even after three years of living in this weather, she had never really adjusted to it. Sometimes it would simply be unbearable, and she had often thought of jumping into the nearest open refrigerator with as much enthusiasm as she would greet an old friend. She was glad that in here, in this malleable world, it was possible to at least keep the humidity from growing into something suffocating.

This was, however, not her dream.

Her dark eyes wandered back to her client, who was standing a few paces ahead of her on the pavement. The well-groomed man was staring unabashedly at her projections, and she could see from his eyes that he longed to interact with them. It was like watching a toddler walk into a zoo for the first time and wishing to pet every animal in existence.

_The new ones are all the same,_ Clara mused, clasping her hands behind her grey, boring suit. She walked up to her employer and cleared her throat.

"Yes, Mr. Ross, this is a dream," she stated in a voice that rang dull. "I understand that this is not your first time?" she inquired, remembering the file she had read about the man. She took a breath and launched herself, rather unwillingly, into the explanation that she had given hundreds of times before: "Mr. Ross. You are the Dreamer. I am the Subject. As a Dreamer, you choose where the dream takes place. You can create structures and manipulate the very essence of physics and space. I see you have chosen Hong Kong as our dream space today." She gestured to the familiar grand buildings and narrow streets.

Clara guessed that Mr. Ross must have been at least fifty, but the fascination in his eyes seemed to drain the years from his lined face. He was drawn in by her very words and the concepts she was describing. "Yes, this city means a lot. It is, after all, where I founded my organisation."

Clara allowed herself to dip her head in quiet (and faked) admiration before plunging on. "Very good, sir. So Hong Kong is our dream space, which you are in control of. A dreamer can, for example, manipulate and build secure locations to hide secrets. Or create defences to trick foreign Subjects."

"Wonderful. Yes, I've been told." Mr. Ross wrung his hands together in anticipation.

"However, if you were to be attacked by so-called Extractors, I'm afraid you won't be in the position to create a space in which to hide your secrets. A specialist team would have already designed an area for your secrets to subconsciously occupy. If that were to happen, _you_ would be the Mark." Clara gestured at the people walking down the streets. "These people you see are called projections. Subjects populate a dream space with projections; my mind is subconsciously doing just that." She smiled dryly. "If I were to feel threatened, or if my projections were to suspect that there is a Dreamer or foreign body at work, they would advance on the Dreamer. You."

At this, Mr. Ross smiled benignly at Clara. "I suppose I don't pose much of a threat to you?"

Clara let out a humourless chuckle. "Not at the moment, sir. But this is not what you hired me for."

"Quite right. I don't want to learn how to steal; why would I want to do such a thing?" He laughed, eyes glistening with mischief and lies."No, what I really want you to do is to tell me how to protect my secrets."

Clara smiled at her employer and gestured for them to walk down the pavement. "Exactly, sir. Shall we begin?"

* * *

Night had long fallen. Clara exited the emblazoned glass door of the soaring office building and was met by an orange pool of light from the streetlamps. She halted in her steps, feeling the fresh night breeze graze her neck that was so different to the persistent heat of Hong Kong's day. She allowed herself a few more lingering seconds before walking at a consistent pace toward the bus stop, where several other people stood waiting in silence. She was tired from work, but ironically she wanted a long bus journey home. For her, tired meant busy, and busy meant her mind was much too occupied to even give her a chance at falling asleep that night. Perhaps the prolonged ride back home could let her clear her head a little.

As she stood by the bus stand, Clara released her mahogany brown hair from her strict pony tail and sifted her fingers through her long strands. She inspected them almost childishly, letting her mind wander. She thought she could see a hint of red. Her mother had always said she had auburn hair.

The longing pang in her heart didn't even register in Clara's strained mind. She was beyond tired. She was mentally - and emotionally - exhausted.

The double-decker bus arrived. Clara climbed on, paid her fare, then headed up to the second floor and sat right at the front so that she had a unobscured view of the streets and the blinking neon signs up ahead. The lights were dim in the bus compartment, and shadows flitted among themselves; it was so easy to think of them as living things, laughing and taunting her. Her hand drifted to her necklace, and she started to fiddle with it idly.

When had she gotten herself into such a mess of a job? Clara worked as a private senior Dream-walker, and was in charge of teaching a whole line of mighty people to guard their secrets. Her clients were mostly multinational billionaires, and had offices in Hong Kong where Clara was currently living. The sad thing was, she had somehow ended up in a position where she didn't work for a single firm, but instead wandered back and forth and got dragged around by all different sorts of companies. It wasn't like there was a shortage of people like her, but she had found that her boring, plain appearance and personality had gained a reliable and trusted reputation, and hence she was now in high demand. Sure, she got paid a large sum of money from all directions, but that had never been the goal. Her goal. She had wandered off-track and was finding it impossible to retrace her smudged footsteps.

She didn't hate her job, though, that was for sure. A small part of her still felt a small thrill every time she stepped into a new dream, and the thought of her being able to create and build was still enticing. But the purposes, the goals, the selfishness behind these employers' actions - and her own - were putting her off. She was not naive, nor was she blind to the importance of money, but she supposed she didn't exactly like how she was fueling these people's greed in order to, strangely, support herself and earn a living. Furthermore, she was not part of any Extracting team. Her job was half as exciting as a real Dream-walker's. She was just a senior coordinator, finding the right people to refer to the companies and backing off once her job was done. She was loyal to no one, and that somehow saddened her. There was a need to feel secure that simply was not satisfied, as well as a need to feel alive and powerful.

But she had had her fun, hadn't she? Years ago, when she had been first introduced to the potential of dreaming, at a time when she had worn the same expression that she had seen on Mr. Ross' face today...

A piercing clanging jolted Clara out of her troubled doze. She gasped and blinked rapidly, getting her bearings before realizing her mobile phone was ringing. She chased it out of her handbag and looked at the blazing screen distractedly through the semi-darkness. It read 'Private'.

This did not surprise Clara. She was often recruited in this way, by an anonymous caller who would then set up a time and date for her services. Understandably, some companies didn't want to leave any tracks that suggested they had been partaking in something fishy. After all, if one company wanted to hide secrets (which was not technically illegal nowadays), it might want to steal secrets too (which was very illegal). She accepted the call and brought the phone to her ear. "Hello?" She wasn't even bothered by how drained her voice sounded.

"Is this Clara?"

The male voice sounded familiar. Articulate, light, and cautious, but not unfriendly. "Yes," she said slowly, "who is this?"

"It's Arthur."

A face matched itself to the voice. Clara felt her jaw slacken. She gripped her smartphone tighter, working her mouth around her words, "Arthur? Oh my God. How did you-"

"You shouldn't be surprised, really. You know how I steal phone numbers everyday." She could hear the smile growing on his thin lips.

"Arthur..." she repeated stupidly. She had not spoken to the man in almost four years. He could have easily called her on any one of those days, and yet he had not. Perhaps, after everything, she had gained his respect, and he had left her alone. Until now. "Hey."

A quiet smirk. Then: "Hi."

"How...how are you?"

"Really? Small talk now? After you walked away without saying goodbye?"

She bit her lip. "Yeah, about that, I'm sor-"

"Don't. It had nothing to do with me."

"It kind of did."

"Only a little."

Clara waited for him to go on. Arthur never did anything without intention. She waited, but silence had fallen on the other end.

"Arthur?"

"Yeah, I'm here. I - you know, he was really worried."

Clara shut her eyes against the moving neon lights outside the shimmering bus window. "I don't want to talk about it, if you don't mind."

"Right, sorry."

Clara could tell just from his voice that this sort of talk was making Arthur uncomfortable. He had called for something else. "It's okay. Why are you calling?"

Arthur took a calm breath over the line. "We did it."

"Did what?"

"Inception."

She laughed in disbelief. "Don't be stupid."

"I'm serious."

She laughed again, but Arthur wasn't saying anything. She sat rod straight in her seat, holding her breath suddenly. "You're serious."

"Like I said."

"My God...Inception. When did you - and h-how?" she spluttered into her phone.

"Come see me and I'll explain," Arthur replied evenly.

Clara froze. "You've got a job for me, haven't you?"

Arthur hesitated only a beat, and that was enough.

"You're baiting me in," she said, almost defiantly. "You're reeling me in just 'cus you need a job done. Well you can forget it, 'cus I'm not-"

"Clara, it's not like that," Arthur interrupted. "I'm calling you 'cus I thought you'd genuinely be interested in the job. We were always talking about inception and now I need to do just that. Again."

Clara's pulse was coursing in her ears like the low rumble of thunder. Her heart was beating laboriously. "I'm - I was a Chemist," she blurted. "It's been ages. You don't need me. And I always preferred Forging."

"We don't need a Chemist. We need a coordinator, someone who knows what they're doing. We need a leader, Clara." Arthur's voice was gentle but insistent.

Clara shook her head, then remembered to speak. "I can't, Arthur. I'm no leader, and I'm out of training."

But even as she spoke, Clara knew it was futile. She was already drawn in, planning things out in her mind's eye. She hated and loved dreaming. She would cave eventually to this mysterious and sudden challenge. She shook her head again desperately. "I wanted nothing to do with it," she muttered helplessly.

She could see Arthur tilting his head, smiling that understanding but distant, faraway smile. "Inception," he repeated. "It's what you wanted all along."

"Damn it, Arthur," Clara chuckled, pushing her hair back from her forehead. He had always been good at the art of persuasion. She gazed out of the window and saw her apartment building loom ahead. She stood up and headed down the shaking stairs to the bus exit.

"So?"

"I'll think about it." The bus pulled to a stop and Clara stepped out.

"I'll call again tomorrow, then."

"Okay." Clara walked toward her building through the apartment complex; shadowed, whitewashed buildings towered over her, and balconies glittered in the moonlight. "One more thing," she added, her feet tapping almost silently over the mosaic floor. "Is _he_ going to be there?"

"Eames?"

Clara felt her shoulders sink at the name. "Yeah. Will he be there?"

"I don't know, Clara. Maybe."

She sighed. "Okay then, Arthur. Call me tomorrow."

**AN: Please tell me what you thought of it my lovelies! I am forever trying to improve my writing creys**


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: Thank you to those who followed and Birdy21 and kenz1717 for reviewing! :') Much love sniff.**

**Disclaimer: _Inception _belongs to Christopher Nolan and Warner Bros.**

_**The Absolute Basic**_

**Chapter Two**

_The roller coaster was trembling as it climbed up the ramp overlooking the colourful amusement park. People were cheering, children were screaming, and carnival music was booming in everyone's ears, intermixed with the low grumbling and whining of the rollercoaster machinery, chugging and heaving its cargo up the steep slope. The smell of sticky, cotton candy rose to her nose, mingled with the tang of the ocean spray on the other side of the carnival._

_Clara stared at the chaotic scene. She was seated on the second car of the roller coaster and was surrounded by jittering families and friends. They paid her no mind as she sat, alone, in her seat with her hands folded over one another. She wasn't scared at all by the prospect of the ride. She merely sat and observed with a bland curiosity._

_They climbed higher, higher, until the people below were erasable dots, and the music was hollowed out. She thought that the air was thinning, but she didn't care, really, because there was suddenly someone wedged next to her, existing and breathing and occupying the empty space._

_And there was nothing - nothing - more frightening than being with the man next to her._

_She stared ahead of her, not daring to look to her left, to see those familiar blue-grey eyes that had held her gaze so many times before, not unlike how a wolf might stare down a frightful rabbit._

"_You left something," he said, and out of the corner of her eye, Clara saw a glint of metal under the brilliant sunlight._

_She swivelled around, walnut-brown eyes shining with malice. "Give that back!"_

_And just as she lashed out to snatch her world back, the roller coaster rumbled past its peak and suddenly shot down like a bullet. And, in a terrifying flash, the necklace was gone. Her's life dictator, her necklace, was flung away into the air, and he was still next to her, leaning toward her, eyes pained and nervous yet she could barely see it as they tumbled down toward the earth at lightning speed-_

"Stop!" Clara yelled, and she scrambled up in bed, her hair sticking to her skin with sweat.

Warm light spilled past the neat, cream blinds and into her peach-walled bedroom. Clara stared around her wildly for a few seconds before she realized she was panting. Taking a few shuddering breaths, Clara's hand shook as she reached out to her bedside drawer. She found her necklace and held it in front of her. The necklace was simply a thin metal chain on which five small, silver beads hung from; there was a letter elegantly engraved on the surface of each one, and together they spelled out a word. Clara quickly studied these letters with ferocity in her eyes, then exhaled, satisfied, and put the necklace back on.

_Don't think. Don't remember._

After a cold shower and a change of clothes, Clara stepped into her kitchen in jeans and a tank top and fixed herself breakfast. She had been living by herself for quite some time in her Hong Kong apartment, which was situated along a hill so that she had to walk up a slope every time she came back from the supermarket. She enjoyed the tranquility the white, minimalistic rooms and wide, generous windows gave her, but this morning she fervently wished there was someone to talk to, to confide in. Despite the heat, she felt chills run through her body as she poured cereal and milk into a bowl. Coco Pops, she had always enjoyed them as a child.

Clara moved into the living room and sat down on her two-seater sofa, tucking her legs under her body and switching on the television. But even as the Saturday morning news played out before her, Clara couldn't help but feel removed from reality. She ate her cereal steadily, trying to hold back on the shivering in her hands.

There were dreams, and then there were _those_ dreams. _Those _dreams were the ones that really got you. They were the ones that really caught you off-guard, so that when you woke up, it would be like your shadow was still living in the dream, and you thought, maybe, you were the one who was still asleep.

Battling on through her breakfast, Clara went back into the kitchen and washed the bowl, then stopped, remembering the phone call from last night. Arthur. The memory brought a reluctant smile to her lips. She had always admired him, seen him as someone she could trust without feeling tied down by anything as mundane as friendship. And even though they had been strangers for the past four years or so, talking to him again had been as easy as slipping into a bubbly, soothing bath.

_There was a short moment when her friends went to the toilet._

"_What's your name?"_

"_Arthur."_

They had met when Clara was studying biochemistry at her university. On another typical night out, she and her friends had run into him, sitting at the bar with nothing but a glass of brandy and an exquisite smile. He had had a serene aura about him. The quiet, observing gentleman. Clara's friends had fawned over him, and she was sure that one of them had even managed to bring him to bed. But from that instance a platonic bond had been formed between the two unlikely acquaintances. He had never given her his full name, but that was fine for Clara. She had not needed to know; she had simply found subtle companionship in him. And so they had exchanged numbers.

They had talked a lot, over phone, e-mails, enough to make her roommates question whether or not they were dating. Clara had dismissed their gossiping and her own little bouts of excitement. They had rarely talked about anything other than this idea of Dream-sharing. She had believed that he was a scientist of sorts, and was on the verge of a breakthrough. He had told her that his colleague - a man named Dominic Cobb - was doing all sorts of experimenting to make what seemed impossible possible.

'_Dreams. They can be shared.' She read his text message over and over again._

_She replied: 'Prove it.'_

Clara often wondered why Arthur had decided to share with her this idea. He was, after all, allowing her an insight into his illegal activities. He hadn't told her outright what he did, but he had implied it, and Clara had taken it up from there. But Arthur hadn't seem dangerous at all. In fact, he had seemed quite neutral and...average (though he was a tad better-looking than most men; Clara had to give him that). Perhaps his unusual outgoing nature had a lot to do with her degree. She had been interested by how one's brain was capable of so much, especially under the influence of drugs and sleep. She had always been intrigued by the subconscious, and had appropriately carried out experiments related to her course. But what Arthur had been inviting her to take part in was incredible.

"_Simply, bloody incredible," remarked a broad man (Eames) with the eyes of a fox._

So she had helped, first, as a Chemist. After graduating, she had been recruited by Arthur to help alter and improve the drug that put them under. The chemical in the PASIV device Eames (_don't think, don't remember_) had stolen from the military had run out, and they had needed more. She had been so eager, it made Clara feel stupid just thinking about it. She had had a part-time job training in pharmacy, but she had spent most of her time in Dom's house, or in a basement, or in a garage, pouring over mind maps and plans on how to expand and deepen the world of Dream-sharing. She had felt so alive, so useful and vital to these entrepreneurs - felons sounded harsh in Clara's head, especially when Cobb and Mal had not used their skills back then for thievery. And Arthur just didn't look like a criminal whatsoever.

_Her first visit to Dom's place. "You and Eames are like spies. Living a double-life."_

"_It's not as exciting as it sounds." He dipped his head modestly, but smiled._

And that was when things had begun to turn grey. It hadn't taken long for Clara to realize that what she was now a part of (she had abandoned her job as a pharmacist before long), all those files and experiments and trial runs, were illegal (at least, Eames' and Arthur's plans were; Dom and Mal had simply been too entranced to shun them away). Yet, she had not been repelled. There had been a certain spark in their activities that had appealed to her. She had never done anything of the sort before; she had shied away from drugs, and had never tampered with alcohol. This, this world of dreams and Extraction, was pure and tainted and as real as a fantasy could be.

_Arthur found her one day._

"_Come with me and I'll prove it."_

So Clara waited. She waited at home, pacing around restlessly for that phone call. She was sure that any second now, her phone would vibrate and ring and she would say 'yes'. How silly of her, to do something so obtuse, to simply leap back into a dangerous life that she had exiled herself from. Yes, she still dealt with the dream world, but what she was doing now was legal. In the last decade, Dream-sharing had expanded, and companies were all threatened. They needed a new form of security, and that was where Clara stepped in. Could she just throw away three years of work?

The sun rose. Then it started to descend. It was the afternoon, and Arthur still hadn't called. Clara was starting to become worried. Had he forgotten? Or had he decided not to bother? She cursed herself for being so impatient and headed out to the small coffee shop just up the road on the hill. The walk brought little peace of mind. She ordered a lemonade for the tropical weather and sat by the window, gazing out blindly.

When the phone finally rang, Clara nearly dropped it in her eagerness to answer. "Arthur?" she asked immediately.

"Hey there."

_She looked up at his devilish smile and shook his hand. "Hi, I'm Clara. Arthur's been telling me about you."_

It was not Arthur's voice. It was rough around the edges, bristling, low, and dangerous. And unlike Arthur's voice, Clara didn't need to guess who it belonged to.

"Eames," said Clara, sounding both devoid of emotion and yet brimming with it. His name came out with difficulty, but there was a sense of returning with the utterance of that single word. Her lips parted fluidly for his name, her jaw working like a fish that had been thrown back into the water after being caught. A necklace; those snow sky eyes. She was holding her breath.

_The man chuckled and gripped her hand firmly. His skin was like sand, mild but textured against her palm. "And he's been telling me about you. Glad to finally meet you for myself."_

_His eyes showed the lie._

He seemed to feel the tension. "Arthur talked to you about the job?" he asked easily enough.

"Yes," she put out, just managing to not turn her phone off. His accent reminded her of guns and candles. "Did he give you my number?"

"He didn't. I'm using his phone." There was a sheepish but deceitful laugh. "I didn't think it'd be wise to have your number, love."

Clara ignored the pet name. She would not rise to it. Four years had made her learn control. "So you're on the team, then?"

A hesitant sigh. "I didn't think it'd be fair for Arthur to hook you up and fly you over without you knowing that I'm definitely in on it as well."

"How thoughtful of you."

"So? You up for it or what?"

Despite this unpleasant (but was it?) surprise, Clara knew what she was going to say. She had already considered the possibility of Eames being there, lurking somewhere too close, and she had decided she wasn't going to let that get in the way of her and Inception, something she had thought about relentlessly for years. This was just any old job, and she was going to be professional. No hard feelings. It was just work, albeit a more challenging type of work.

"Yes," she said out loud, affirming to herself more than anyone that she was committed. "I'm in."

"Lovely," replied Eames, and she could hear the beginnings of a chuckle forming in the back of his throat. "Arthur looks so chuffed right now."

"Are _you_?" Clara stuttered before she could help herself. She could feel the heat of uncertainty boiling inside her.

Eames went quiet for a long time, and Clara wished she could stare him down for an answer. She heard rustling and movement.

"Eames?" she said, less confidently.

"Clara? It's Arthur. I've got your ticket to London, where we're at. I'll e-mail you everything and all the details right away."

"Oh, right. Thanks. I'll see you soon?"

"Yeah, see you soon. I'm glad we're working on this one together."

"Me too, Arthur."

"Bye then." His voice was replaced by the beeping of a dead line.

Clara set her phone down to the table and ran her knuckles over her forehead.

* * *

Clara left the next day, on a Sunday. After having packed all her essentials in a maroon suitcase, she had slept through the night with trouble and woken up feeling groggy but purposeful. She had left a message for Mr. Ross saying that she was unfortunately busy and had sent a replacement while she was away, and that had been that.

The ride to London took eleven hours, and Clara felt like the undead as she followed a path toward Immigration. She gave her passport, took it back, then went to Baggage Reclaim and hauled her suitcase off the conveyor belt. All the while she was fighting the swirl of panic in her gut. She must not freak out. Not now. Clara had to stay level-headed, because she couldn't show the man, who was with Arthur and beckoning to her as she exited the Arrivals gate in London Heathrow, that she had felt anything that was even close to remorse or guilt or nostalgia. Because, if she was to show even a hint of such an atrocity, then things would inevitably fall to pieces, and her skin would be returned to shreds.

And wouldn't that be a shame?

**AN: Hope you enjoyed! It's a bit of a development chapter but I hope I left enough mystery in there :/**


	3. Chapter 3

**AN: Many thanks to silver-nightstorm, Mishi-boo and LauRa-ReaDinG-XoX for reviewing, and also thank you for those who followed and faved. :')**

**Disclaimer: _Inception _belongs to Christopher Nolan and Warner Bros.**

_**The Absolute Basic**_

**Chapter Three**

"You look exhausted," Arthur commented, shoving her suitcase in the back of the gleaming white Jaguar parked neatly in Heathrow car park. It was late in the morning, but a chill seemed to haunt the people and their city.

Arthur watched Clara give him a grateful smile before she climbed into the back seat of the roomy car. She was wearing navy leggings and a simple shirt, and looked much too underdressed for London's weather. The tip of her nose was pink, and her lips were quivering as she spoke. Arthur chuckled quietly; October in London was not the same thing as October in Hong Kong.

"I am," Clara replied as Arthur settled into the passenger's seat and Eames climbed behind the steering wheel. The doors shut simultaneously.

Arthur twisted around in the front passenger's seat and took a good, long look at Clara. He smiled, trying not to make it seem like he was scrutinizing her, but he supposed, in a sense, that that was exactly what he was doing. It had simply been so long since they had last met. Although this was the norm in Arthur's line of work, to see people come and go, the nature in which Clara had left them all had been much too sudden for any form of preparation. Especially for the man sitting silently in the driver's seat.

The Pointman could still remember that funny little night. He had been at a quaint little pub with just a glass of brandy and had caught the eye of one of Clara's bubbly (and attractive) friends. He had flirted a bit - something he did much too rarely - but Clara had cared for none of it, and that had shut him up a little. Instead, he had asked her about her studies, about her course, and talking to her was a bit like talking to a ghost of his own past. He couldn't have been that much older than her, but he had been surprised by both the simplicity and maturity of the girl before him. For one, she had refused any sort of alcohol on that night-out, and despite his badgering, she had refused to explain why. Her reluctance and strict demeanour had somehow pushed Arthur into giving his number and getting hers, and things had simply led on from that.

"Stop staring at me," Clara said indignantly. She looked at Arthur through stray strands of auburn-brown hair that reminded one of crisp, autumn leaves.

"Did you dye your hair?" he asked.

"What? No."

"Really? It looks redder than before."

Clara gave him an exasperated look. "It's always been like this."

"It looks redder. Don't you think so?" Arthur mused, and he turned to Eames, who had not stirred at all and was staring out of the windshield.

Arthur had never been so talkative in his entire life, but here he was, trying to get some conversation flowing forcing a bridge over the awkward river that was filling the car second by second. Or perhaps he was just imagining things. Both of them were quiet, but at least civilised and calm. Arthur was the one getting worked up. Worst of all, he felt like a damn fool for doing so, but a gnawing part of him insisted it was necessary. Etiquette, even. He glared at the side of Eames stubbled face, daring those deep-set grey eyes to turn this way and look at the woman behind him. "Eames?" he prompted, and though only a second had passed after his initial question, it might as well have been a whole four years.

Eames shot him an odd look before turning round in the seat and grinning at Clara. "I dunno. Looks the same as before, darling," he said to Arthur, and his eyes quickly darted back to the steering wheel. He turned on the ignition. "Let's get going, shall we?"

Arthur gave Clara an apologetic glance, then mentally slapped himself for it. Why was he feeling this obnoxious need to fill in the gaping void between these two people? The car started and rolled forward, Eames spinning the wheel smoothly and guiding it toward the exit ramp. Arthur ran his fingers lightly over his jaw. He watched as Heathrow slipped away and they joined the stream of cars onto the motorway heading toward the heart of London.

Arthur had never really understood what had happened between Eames and Clara. In the several jobs they had executed together, he had watched the pair's relationship (Eames had always hated the word) grow and twist and eventually disintegrate. Maybe there was unrequited love in there (though Arthur had never seen Eames as someone who was partial to love), or perhaps Eames had tried something risky and Clara had learned to resent him for it. Either way, Arthur knew it was not going to be a simple matter of forgetting and moving on. He sometimes blamed himself for their current dispute and silence. After all, he had been the one to introduce them to each other. Without Arthur being the tying string, these two individuals would never had met.

And maybe that was why he was in this position of trying to force some light-heartedness into the situation. Arthur felt responsible. He always did, nowadays, to a certain extent. It must have rubbed off from Dom, who had always been the natural leader. Arthur was independent and quick, but Dominic Cobb had that special touch about him. It might have been down to something as irrelevant as age, but that was all it took to make Dom a much better leader than Arthur would ever be.

As if she was reading his mind, Clara suddenly piped up, "So, Inception. You and Cobb finally did it?"

"Yes, we all did," Arthur replied. Cars whooshed and zoomed past them at dangerous speeds. "We had a team of six."

"What?" Clara sounded incredulous. "That many? But an Extraction takes about-"

"Three, yes. But this is Inception we're talking about here. We needed Dreamers on each of the levels in order to plant the idea deep enough."

"Wait...so how many levels did you go down to?"

"Three. Four if you include Limbo." At this Arthur gave a little chuckle.

"My God," breathed Clara, looking deeply engaged. "What idea did you guys have to plant?"

"We needed to convince a young man called Robert Fischer to destroy his dying father's company," said Eames.

Arthur watched Clara turn to Eames in the rear-view mirror. There was fascination and hesitation in her eyes. "You were part of the team?"

"You bet," replied Eames, eyes never wandering from the car ahead.

"Oh, when?"

"Six, seven months ago?" He looked to Arthur for confirmation, and Arthur nodded.

"But," Clara continued, sounding a little confused, "but you tried before, right? What made this one successful?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Arthur saw Eames grin a little and say, "All will be explained after we get there."

"Get where?"

"Get to our boss. We're going to the briefing now."

* * *

The road they were traveling down was lined on one side with magnificent office buildings, beneath which people in long dark coats walked in almost robotic precision. To their left was the River Thames, winding its way through the city. They were in the bustling home of London's most successful businesses and clients. Clara could almost smell the innovation and money behind those shining doors. She had read about the development of this place: Canary Wharf. It was truly impressive. She tipped her head back in the car to stare up the buildings.

"We're here," Eames announced, pulling into smaller path that led into an underground car park. He brought the car into the car park but seemed to have trouble looking for their allocated meeting place, and was asking Arthur for directions.

"I thought you knew where we were going," said Arthur, annoyed.

"Forgive your forgetful pet," Eames replied in a playful voice.

Arthur rolled his eyes, then gestured impatiently. "That way, you idiot."

"Merci." Eames steered the car toward the ramp to go to the floor below.

Clara had not dared look up into Eames' eyes. She didn't want him to see that she was really, really struggling. She was already having second thoughts. Part of the reason she had given up on the addictive but illegal side of Extractions and jobs was because of the man chuckling behind the steering wheel. She gripped the hem of her shirt and willed herself to remain calm. She was going to meet her new employer, and she didn't want to leave a bad impression.

Besides, Eames didn't seem all that bothered by her presence, so why should she be affected by his? She had expected him to try something, or to pose hurtful questions that would really just get them nowhere. She had expected a commotion. But no. He had been fairly distant and removed when Arthur had dragged her suitcase along to the car. Maybe he was just giving her some space. It hardly looked like he was remorsing in his own little head. And, anyway, he was opening up to her bit by bit as the day went by, talking to her and answering questions. He seemed able to keep himself in check, and it wasn't like they were completely shunning each other. They were grownups. He knew what he had to do, and he also knew what he had done all those years ago.

_Stop blaming him. He didn't do anything. You just ran away one day and he was trying to find you and-_

But she didn't feel like defending Eames at the moment.

At last, the Jaguar rolled up next to a door presumably leading to the elevators. Eames pulled out the key with a swift yank and pocketed it, looking over his shoulder at Clara. "Ready?"

She tried not to stare. "Yeah. Tired, but ready."

Arthur smiled encouragingly back at her. "You'll be a great leader."

Clara sighed. "Guys, this is a team effort, and by the sounds of it Inception seems to require helluva lot more teamwork than the jobs we did." She paused, allowing herself a pensive second before she continued, "Wouldn't it be easier if Cobb led this one? Why isn't he here?"

"He's back with his kids in the States, and he wants to forget the dreams. Entirely," said Eames, fixing the light purple shirt beneath his tweed jacket. "Shame, really."

"He was always the family man," Clara murmured.

"Well, a lot happened after you left. Things got complicated and Dom couldn't get back to his kids for a good while," Arthur explained.

"What happened?"

"Mal died," Eames muttered, just as the door leading to the elevators opened and a young man stepped into the dreary car park, followed by two burly men who appeared to be bodyguards.

"What?!"

"Shh, enough," Arthur silenced. "We'll tell you later."

The trio stepped out of the car and walked slowly toward the suited men. Clara guessed that the blond man who looked in charge was in his early-thirties. She had expected someone older. It was uncommon to see a younger person in a position of great power. She eyed the grim bodyguards in their black suits with caution.

"Stand straight with your arms out while we inspect you for any hidden devices or weapons," the blond man started bluntly, in a crisp English accent, as Clara stopped before them. She did as she was told, raising her arms shoulder level and trying not to kick at the tall man who frisked her thoroughly. This was obviously a covert affair, and she guessed that not all of this company's members approved of what was about to happen.

"You do not need to know my name," the man continued once the bodyguards returned to his side; Clara noticed him grip the folders he was holding with more force. She took a small side-step toward Arthur. "I will be known as Marcus from now on. I represent one of the leading heads of our hotel management company, Golden Clover Hotels. You will not attempt to contact said person, you will only confer with me. Understood?"

There was silence, until Arthur nudged Clara in the ribs. She had already forgotten she was meant to be in charge of this team. "Yes. Sorry."

Marcus narrowed his eyes disapprovingly. "You know why you are here. You perform your task, and our company will pay you grandly. No questions asked."

"We understand."

Marcus sighed, then went on in an authoritative voice, "As you probably know, Golden Clover Hotels have resorts and inns all over the world. We are an international brand with high standards and expectations. We serve millions of important clients on a daily basis. And, as is the way of life, there is competition. There are two other hotel names, our major rivals, that have been growing steadily over the years, and although we are (fairly) confident we would succeed in the long-run, we do want to keep the money rolling in quickly at the end of each month." He let out a dry chuckle.

"Hear, hear," Eames interjected. Clara didn't know if she should laugh or slap him.

"Recently, we have heard talk about these two hotels forming a merger. This would allow their companies to become a powerful multinational force, like us." Marcus eyed them carefully, speaking deliberately slower. "However, this is exactly what we want them to do."

Clara could hear the surprise in Arthur's voice: "You want your two biggest rivals to join up together?"

Marcus dismissed the question and went on with his speech as if Arthur had not interrupted. "We already have inside information that carrying out this merger will be time-consuming and will use up resources. It will be new to them, a trial run. This merger is not a particularly good deal to either side, and will eventually fall apart. These two names will only be a nuisance to each other if they attempted to cooperate. Roles will have to be redistributed, and arguments will entail. Each of their CEOs will fight for the reign. They will lose clients, investors and respect. And while all this happens, our hotel will maintain a pristine reputation of being independent and capable. No one will ever suspect us." Marcus tilted his head up ever so slightly. "We will be dominant while they crumble and waste."

"Fair enough. So what's the problem?" asked Clara.

"The problem we face is that the CEO of one of these hotels is reluctant to agree to the merger. We do not know why." Marcus held out the files for Clara to take. "We need you to implant the idea into this CEO's mind that going with the merger will be the best thing that will ever happened to their company." Another dry chuckle. "But, of course, time will prove otherwise."

Clara tucked the files under her arm. "You're in safe hands."

Marcus nodded, then gestured at the three of them. "Is this your entire team?"

Clara glanced at Arthur, and he shook his head. "We'll be done recruiting soon," Arthur supplied.

Marcus' gaze swept them all. He turned and opened the door. "You have until the end of November to finish the job."

**AN: And that's another chapter! Hope you all liked it .3."**


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: _Inception_ belongs to Christopher Nolan and Warner Bros.**

**AN: Much love to LauRa-ReaDing-XoX, silver-nightstorm and Ninavs2 for reviewing! And thanks for the new faves and followers o3o**

_**The Absolute Basic**_

**Chapter Four**

The bed was unrealistically soft. Eames groaned a little as he turned onto his side. He breathed out hoarsely, keeping his eyes shut, relaxing against the smooth sheets. His cheek was pressed tightly against the pillow. He could feel small, dented lines on his skin where he had been lying on the creases and folds of the covers.

Painfully, Eames pushed himself into a sitting position and shivered as the covers fell around his hips. He was wearing a vest and a pair of striped boxers, and he felt chilled. _Isn't the heating on? _he thought, forcing himself to get out of the cosy bed and toward the heater, turning the dial up and rubbing his arms uselessly.

"Shower," he muttered to himself. He walked across the furnished bedroom of his London flat with its velvet curtains and wide screen television set in front of the king-sized bed. His job certainly paid well, as long as he managed to get out of his enemies' reach. The bathroom door was open invitingly for him. He stripped quickly, feeling goosebumps rise over his rough, tattooed skin. He stepped into the glass shower cubicle and turned on the steaming water, sighing contently and tipping his head back as he felt the heat seep into his core.

Eames had never expected that meeting Clara Etheridge all those years ago would have led to something like this. And as the water rushed over his head, matting his dark hair against his forehead, Eames closed his eyes briefly and pictured her face. It had once been so difficult to bring that image to mind, mostly because he didn't want to remember her again. Time had erased the layers of her skin, her hair, her eyes...and, incredibly, she was back again. She had jumped right back into his life, doing what she had originally left behind.

How was she feeling right now? Scared? Insecure? He needed to dissect those thoughts, the ones that had led to his silly frame of mind. Yes, he was a fool, believing that seeing her again was going to make everything better. People changed. Eames of all people should have known.

The phrase sounded familiar. Had she once accused him of this? Of changing too much?

The hot water rolled down his limbs, soothing him back into alluring memories.

"_So you can change? In the dream?" Clara asked him._

"_Hm? Oh, oh yeah." Eames grinned._

_Eames was lounging on one of Dom's dining chairs. He had found himself spending more and more time with the insistent man, who was sure of the potential of Dream-sharing and was running experiments with the few he saw fit. Eames supposed he should have counted himself lucky for being found and chosen. He had learned a lot through Cobb and Miles, more so than in the years he had spent Extracting alone. They had taught him things that would have taken months to pick up. And, as a result, he had been able to earn more cash._

"_And what did you say you called it?" Clara pressed, shadowed honey eyes kept on him._

_Eames took in the girl across the table from him. She was young, barely out of university. Arthur had brought her to them after she graduated without a shadow of a doubt that she could contribute. Cobb and Mal had welcomed her over the course of the last week with open arms, but Eames still had some reservations. There was a freshness about her that seemed to dissipate in all directions, like a pleasant fragrance. Yet, there was something about her appearance that just screamed innocence. Naivety. He glanced up at her. Her hair was draped in front of one shoulder in a loose side braid. She was leaning toward him with her arms on the table, hands held in front neatly, like a student at an interview. Although she was technically an adult, Eames was already approaching thirty, and right now they seemed leagues apart._

"_Well, Dom's father-in-law calls it Forging," Eames explained._

"_Forging," Clara tried it on her tongue. "That sounds..." She let out a little chuckle._

"_What?"_

_Clara shrugged, her eyes beaming at him. "That sounds sneaky."_

_Eames smirked and pretended to study another page of notes. "Why d'you say that?"_

_Clara shifted in her chair and sighed, obviously pondering, "I dunno. It just sounds sneaky. Dodgy, sorta. I mean, you're changing your appearance in a dream to get information you want to make money."_

"_Well, when you put it like that," Eames laughed. "You make me sound like an asshole."_

_Clara opened her mouth to reply, then stopped and smiled._

_Eames rolled his eyes. "I'm _not _an asshole, darling."_

_She ignored him. "Tell me more about the dreams."_

"_I thought Arthur told you all about it."_

"_But Arthur hasn't done anything like becoming someone else in a dream," she said eagerly. "How do you do it?"_

_How _did _he do it? How had he learned to put on the world's most convincing disguise? It had simply come to him as easily as changing into a new set of clothes. After having been introduced to the world of dreaming in the army, everything had fallen into place, and Eames had found the one thing he loved doing. Forging. He helped make it what it was, and it was slowly making him into...well, a more complicated person._

"_You have to start small. It takes time to work up to the final thing, and it takes a lot of practise," he started, trying unsuccessfully to convey the hours of training and mental preparation he needed to convincingly take on a new role. "I need to know a lot about the person, first of all. You can't be someone if you don't know anything about them."_

"_And then?"_

"_And then it's all about tricking the Subject and the Dreamers into thinking I'm someone else," he stated simply._

_Clara wedged her elbows on the table and propped her chin on top of her hands. "Don't you ever get confused about who you are?"_

_He had to laugh at this. "Now don't you pick out the nasty bits quickly," he said, running his fingers over the ridges indented on the table. Swirling patterns led the way. "I've never really gotten confused. I know what I'm doing."_

"_Do you think you ever will get lost?"_

_Eames stared at her, then burst out with a toothy grin, "So many questions. You are too nosy for your own good."_

"_Am I? Speak for yourself. All you're planning to do is snoop around in other people's business."_

"_Well, so are you. If you wanna earn big bucks, you're gonna have to stick around with the Dream-sharing and learn all about Extraction, love."_

_The conversation lapsed a little as a different expression crossed Clara's face. She scratched her collarbone, then glanced around them. "Where's Arthur? And everyone else? I want to start already. Lately it's all been talk but no action. I want to dream."_

_Eames smiled slyly. "Darling, you already are."_

* * *

The warehouse sat just a few meters from the Thames. It was far removed from Canary Wharf, however, most likely because Golden Clover Hotels wanted their illegal workers as far as possible from them. They blatantly wanted everything, and that everything had to be perfect: wealth, power, and an untainted reputation. It made Clara's insides squirm just thinking about it, but then again, was this really that different from her old, 'honest' job? It wasn't black and white when it came to the greedy.

Clara arrived with the files outside the drabby warehouse at quarter to ten in the morning, slightly earlier than planned. She was shivering despite wearing the biggest sweater she had packed (which, in all fairness, was rather thin and useless). The wind teased her hair this way and that, and the river churned behind the railings ahead. She stomped her feet about and rested her back against the brick wall, cursing under her breath and ignoring the looks some commuters were giving her. She must have looked quite odd; a well-dressed young woman standing huddled against a gloomy, mouldy red warehouse.

Clara had forgotten how cold London could be. Her mother had an apartment near Hyde Park, and she had often visited before the day Clara's father fell into a coma after he was hit by a car. After all the comfort and support Clara had given her mother, somehow, the two women had drifted apart. And neither - seemingly - had bothered to fix their relationship while both husband and father lay in hospital on life support.

_Leave it be, _she reminded herself as she hugged herself. _Regret doesn't change anything. _She had never been close to her mother to begin with. Clara's mother owned a small but prestigious accountancy firm and was obsessed on making it big. It was her father who had really taken care of her. He had been a doctor - a General Practitioner, to be precise - and had been responsible for sparking Clara's interest in molecules and organisms and cells and dreams. Everything had a starting point.

"Your first Inception. Exciting stuff," someone called out, and Clara's head snapped up. Her eyes landed on Eames' figure, strolling casually towards her in a leather jacket and pink shirt. A file was tucked under one arm and he was swirling a keyring around his index finger. He looked too comfortable. Too normal. Why couldn't she be like him? Why couldn't she just erase everything from her face and look as collected and as natural and as removed as he did? It would have saved so much trouble.

Clara bit her lip and tried to smile as he walked up to the large steel doors next to her. She watched him twist the key inside the lock and push the door open for them both. She followed him inside, grateful for the shelter against the wind, but it was still damned cold inside. There were curtained windows on each of the looming walls, painted a slate grey. The warehouse was huge, enough to set a modest swimming pool in the middle with space to spare. Tables and chairs were littered around various dusty equipment and machinery.

"You're cold."

"I - er, yeah, I am." Clara recovered from her daze, instinctively scratching her nails over her collarbone, near her necklace. It was a nervous tick of hers, something her mother had picked out and scolded her for.

"Here, put this on," Eames continued, and, to her horror, he began to shrug off his jacket.

"No!" Clara interrupted, her voice louder than was plainly necessary. "I'm okay, really."

Eames smirked, took the jacket off and threw it at her. Clara caught the jacket and held it in front of her as if it would scald her. "You're not dying of hypothermia on my watch, love."

She attempted to give it back to him, protesting, "Eames, really, it's fine."

"Just shut it and put it on. Heaters'll take forever to warm up the damn place."

_Stop it!_

She could have taken it a step further, but what would be the point? She couldn't stand up and deny his presence forever. Pretending to hate him would get her nowhere, and it was immature. Pathetic.

Then it struck her, it really did. There was Eames, right across the table, and if she had fancied or dared, she could have walked up to him and slipped her hands beneath his ridiculous shirt and felt his heartbeat, racing against her fingertips, reassuring and methodic and just _there._

"Fine," she grumbled, keeping her face averted as she threaded her arms through the larger jacket. It had his heavy smell laced all over the torturous thing. Rusty alleyways, liquor, a cocoon of bed sheets. Enticing and distasteful at the same time.

"Where's Arthur?" Clara muttered automatically, folding her arms tightly across her chest, the jacket bulky over her smaller build.

Eames checked his watch with a grin. "Knowing him, he's probably timed his arrival to the dot. Never early, never late."

Clara stood for a while, then dragged a chair over to the table and sat down. She coughed. "Can you tell me what happened to Dom? And Mal? She...died?"

Eames copied her, pulling another chair to the table and relaxing into it. "Well," he started, "you know how Cobb and Mal loved their experiments. They always wanted to go deeper in the dreams, especially Dom, always pushing the boundaries. One day they ended up in Limbo."

Clara's lips parted in surprise. She had never been to the realm of raw creation and forgetfulness. "Wow. They went down that much?"

"Yeah. Dom said it was amazing, but it was terrifying too. They spent decades down there, just building stuff and believing that they were awake." Eames ran a troubled hand over his slicked hair. "After decades, Dom remembered what was reality, but Mal kept believing that Limbo was real."

"So what happened?"

"Dom had to perform Inception on her."

Clara gave a shallow laugh.

Eames nodded. "It was his first, and it was perfect. Limbo, the deepest level of the dreams. Planting an idea - and such a simple one, too - on that level would mean tremendous results. He made her believe that her world was a dream. So they killed themselves and woke up." He sighed.

Clara contemplated. "They woke up...and she still believed?"

Eames was studying his knuckles. "Mal believed that reality was still, in fact, a dream. So she killed herself to wake herself up." He made a fist with his hand, then unclenched it. "She died about two years after you left."

She had nothing to say, except: "And Cobb?"

"He was blackmailed by Mal. She wanted Cobb to go with her, but he didn't, so she made it seem like he killed her and that tore him away from his kids. He couldn't go back to them, not until the six of us performed Inception on Robert Fischer and a certain powerful man got Cobb back home." Eames scratched his jaw. "Dom never forgave himself for Mal."

The silence that followed was appropriate. Clara thought about Mal, her genuine smile and love for Dom. Clara had not grown particularly close to either of them, but they had left their marks on her. They had embodied - to Clara - the most creative and daring souls in her life.

"I'm not proud of the things I've done either, Clara," Eames murmured abruptly, and before she knew it his warm hand was covering hers.

She yanked her hand away, fire suddenly in her veins. "Stop it."

"This isn't who I-"

"I got it, Eames, thanks." She was standing now, circling away from him unsteadily.

She heard him get to his feet as well. "We need to talk," he insisted.

_You have no idea what I'm hiding from you._

"No, we don't." Clara flung her hands up, still facing away. _I'm not ready yet. _"We really don't need to waste time on this. I left the Extractions for f-family reasons, and many others. Stop concerning yourself with-"

"I don't believe a single bloody word of that." He was taking deliberate steps toward her. "You were always going on and on about-"

The doors heaved open with a loud drawl and Arthur strode in. "Perfect," he said, carrying a briefcase and files. "We're all here. I need to talk to you guys about getting the rest of the team." He walked over to them and set the briefcase on the table. "Shall we bring back Ariadne?"

"Sure thing, darling," Eames chimed, and Clara hated him for his steady, perfect voice.

**AN: Awk tension.**


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: _Inception_ belongs to Christopher Nolan and Warner Bros.**

**AN: Kisses to Ninavs2, LauRa-ReaDinG-XoX, silver-nightstorm and anonymous reviewers for showing me love .3."**

_**The Absolute Basic**_

**Chapter Five**

Arthur placed his phone back in his suit pocket. "That's that. Ariadne's flying in tomorrow."

"Where's my favourite little lady hiding out?" Eames asked with a fond smile, leaning back lazily on his chair.

"Still in Paris studying. She's in her last year. But she says she's delighted to help us out again," Arthur remarked, looking particularly pleased about this fact.

"Ariadne was your Architect for the Inception, right?" Clara asked, sitting with her legs crossed on a chair again.

Arthur nodded in reply and sat on the edge of the table. "She was great. Got it in a second." He smiled at her. "A bit like you, but quicker."

"Gee, thanks."

Eames nudged Arthur slyly. "Tell our old friend what you pulled on Ariadne, won't you?"

Arthur rolled his eyes, clearly embarrassed. "Shut up, Eames. I don't appreciate your-"

"He tricked Ari into kissing him," Eames broke out, turning gleeful eyes on Clara. "He told her that if she kissed him the projections would leave them alone."

"Oh my God." Arthur buried his face in his hands.

"You bastard, you." Eames prodded Arthur with his foot.

Clara forced out a laugh; her mind was still reeling from how seamlessly Eames had fallen into this new carefree role. It was nauseating to watch. "That's very...unlike you, Arthur," she said lightly.

"I forgot to ask, have you two kept in touch?" Eames turned back to Arthur, suddenly dead serious.

Arthur glared back at him. "What does it matter to you?"

"I might get jealous."

"Of who?"

"Gentlemen," Clara interjected, sitting forward and fanning her hands over the table. "I didn't fly across the world to watch you two flirt. Arthur dragged me here to do a job, and we have a month and a bit to do it. So let's make a start, okay?"

The instant surprise on their faces prompted a triumphant little spark from within Clara. She reached for one of the files she had brought with her. "Have you guys read these yet?" she inquired.

"Yes, ma'am," Eames replied curtly.

Her eyes darted up to him, then came back down and she smiled weakly.

"So, Golden Clover Hotels," Arthur said, reaching for his own file and sifting through it carefully. "They want their competitors to form a merger in order for the two firms to disintegrate. The two hotels that are rumoured to have that merger are Dynasty Hotels and Grand Empark Resorts. The one we need to perform Inception on is Dynasty."

"Who's Dynasty's CEO?" asked Eames.

Arthur squinted at him. "I thought you said you read the files."

"I forgot."

"His name is Stephen Trollope," Clara said, before they could have another row. Arthur threw a file at Eames. "Fifty-six years old, lives in Chicago, divorced, has two children," she continued.

"He's known to be strong-headed and isn't easily maneuvered into taking on other colleagues' ideas," Arthur continued. "So we have to make the idea even more simpler. It has to be personal."

"The absolute basic," said Eames, nodding and running his finger along the bridge of his nose, studying the pieces of paper.

"Let's think time," Clara said, crossing her legs again on the chair. "How long did you guys take last time?"

Eames glanced at Arthur before replying, "Well, we originally had a whole ten hour flight, but-"

"-but Fischer Junior had a trained subconscious and things sort of fell to pieces a bit," finished Arthur.

"All because you didn't finish the background check," Eames reminded.

"Shut up."

"It was all your fault."

"Guys!" Clara slapped the table. "Quit it."

It was starting to become quite funny, how Clara had expected the distractions to come from her and Eames, but instead here she was, trying to stop the two men from bickering. She supposed it was a sort of relief, to feel like she needed to lead, to be in charge. It gave her security.

"Sorry," Arthur said through gritted teeth. "Six months from this man and-"

"-and I haven't changed a bit." Eames snickered.

"Anyway!" Clara exclaimed, staring at Eames in disbelief. "Time! You say you had ten hours. That sounds plenty."

"When would we get Trollope alone for even half that time, though?" Arthur asked, shifting himself farther up the table from Eames. "Does he travel a lot? If we took him in for too long we might raise a few questions. He's a busy man."

"I dunno..." Clara studied her file again. "Perhaps on a holiday? Or do you think a kidnapping's in order?"

"That would be harder," said Arthur. "And there's always a danger of Trollope remembering the kidnap, which might affect the Inception. Especially if his subconscious is trained."

"We could plant a decoy," Eames suggested in a startlingly calm voice. "Does he have any close friends? We could send a fake message and set up a meeting with him in some quiet place."

"What would he do if his friend doesn't show up?" Arthur asked.

"We could pick him up," Clara improvised. "Pretend to be his friend's chauffeur or something and pick him up in a car. All we need is a glass of spiked water and he'd be good to go."

"That sounds plausible," Arthur decided, fishing a pen out of his waistcoat pocket and scribbling down a few notes. "I'll find out Trollope's monthly schedule. And I'll see if he's had any subconscious training."

"We need more on Trollope's personal life," Eames continued, shaking his head a little at the file in his hands. "His personality, his habits, friends, all that business."

"We need everything, Forger," Arthur said.

Eames winked. "You can count on me."

_Can I?_

* * *

Eames watched Clara as she unpacked the PASIV machine. She stood in front of it, apparently lost in thought. Her fingers traced the wires and the metal components, but she hardly seemed to be seeing what was really in front of her. Meanwhile, Arthur was sitting by himself at the far end of the warehouse, tapping consistently at a laptop, hacking God knows how many agendas and high-security profiles.

Eames opened his mouth to speak, but Clara had already turned away and started dragging an abandoned and threadbare sofa toward the table they were sitting at. He made to go help her, then decided not to and sank lower in his seat, fiddling with the corners of the file. His eyes never left Clara.

Perhaps he had been looking to hard. Clara noticed him after a while. "What?" she asked.

"Nothing."

"Don't you have something productive to do?" She let the sofa rest with a dull thud; puffs of dust rose around her hips.

"Relax. I'll get round to it." Eames placed the file back on the table. "Besides, I need to _see _Trollope. I have to study him, and I can't really do that until I'm in Chicago."

"Why aren't we based in Chicago for this job, anyway?" Clara wondered, sitting on the armrest of the sofa and unravelling one of the IV tubes from the PASIV device.

Eames shrugged nonchalantly. "Dunno. Maybe Golden Clover wanted us nearby so they could gun us down if they had second thoughts."

Clara grimaced. "Maybe we should jump ship to Chicago then."

"Nah. Best to stay away from the Mark for now, while we're in the early stages. We don't want to slip up right at the start."

"True." Clara nodded along with his suggestions, and they seemed to share a moment right there. A calm, collected, professional moment that felt good and reliable and masked.

"Anyway," Eames went on, "what are _you _doing?"

The tips of Clara's lips lifted gracefully. "It's been ages since I've simply created. I want to experiment again. Kinda like old times." She bit her lip slightly. "My current job doesn't allow that."

"What do you do?"

There it was again, that slow scrabbling of her fingernails at her collarbone, peeking behind his own jacket. A hairline fracture in her otherwise normal appearance. "I teach businessmen how to strengthen their subconscious," she said simply, "to protect their secrets from people like you."

Eames smirked. "Always making sure your services are in high demand, love."

Clara furrowed her brow. "Forgers may mean I'm needed by a lot of wealthy people, but I still don't like the idea of you faking an appearance and stealing things."

"Oh, I know, darling, I know."

Clara surveyed him strangely, eyes a little unfocused, as if she was reminiscing.

"I'm sorry," Eames said quietly, "about - before Arthur walked in."

Shaking her head, Clara ignored his gaze. "Doesn't matter."

In silence, Eames watched as Clara prepared the PASIV device, setting the timing mechanism and making sure she had enough of the drug in the wide circular tubes. She shook off his leather jacket and laid it down on the sofa before she settled herself lying on her back. She patted her wrist and cleaned the area with an alcoholic wipe Arthur had supplied earlier. She inspected her wrist for a vein and inserted the IV needle with ease, wincing a little as it pierced her skin.

"Need any help?" Eames asked.

"I'm fine, thanks," came the careful reply. But then: "Actually, could you help me activate it? I don't want to pass out while I'm pressing that button."

"Sure thing." Eames hauled himself up and walked around the table next to her. She lied on her back and watched him as his finger hovered over the button set in the middle of the device.

"Sweet dreams," he said before pressing down. A soft hiss escaped, followed by a hollow sigh from Clara as she closed her eyes. Her body tensed for a second before completely relaxing into the creases of his jacket, on top of the dirty fabric of the sofa. She was off. Eames stood over her, examining every inch hungrily, unashamedly.

"How long is she gonna be out for?" Arthur called from across the room, making Eames jump slightly at his echoing voice. "And that PASIV doesn't have the sedative in yet."

Eames checked the timer on the device. "Ten minutes," he said. "What's ten times twelve?"

"One hundred and twenty, you git."

"Divided by sixty?"

"Two."

"So she'll spend two hours down there..."

"Yes. Your math is horrendous."

"_Maths, _darling, not _math._"

"I don't need lessons from you, Mr. Eames."

Eames chuckled and walked across the wide warehouse to Arthur, sitting at a desk with papers scattered all around him. He was twirling a ball-point pen around on his index finger, and was staring at the laptop screen in deep concentration.

"How's it going?" said Eames, leaning against the desk sideways.

Arthur heaved a sigh. "Fine," he muttered, and he dropped the pen and fixed Eames with an uncomfortable stare. "Stop it."

"What?" Eames was poised to look normal.

"Stop acting. I don't want this job to be compromised by whatever's going on between you two."

"Honestly, Arthur, I think _we're_ more of a problem."

"I'm being serious here, Eames."

"I am too."

"Eames..."

The Forger looked away, ignoring his colleague's pleas.

Arthur shook his head in despair and sighed again. "Look. I don't want you to talk about it with me-"

"I wasn't going to."

"-but you can't afford to get distracted. Not like Cobb."

"Then why did you bring her here?" Eames snapped abruptly, and his eyes flickered venomously to Clara's unconscious form before they glared at the man in front of him. "You knew I was interested in this job. Why did you have to get her involved?!" His voice was dangerously close to breaking.

Arthur glared back, unwavering. "Because she deserves to know about Inception. More than anyone."

"Why?"

Arthur fell silent for a short while.

Eames felt fear creep into him. "Has she talked to you?" _Before talking with me first?_

"No." Arthur smoothed his hair back with the palm of his hand. "She's simple. Different from the two of us. Always has been, always will. And that's why she deserves to know." Arthur turned back to his laptop. "Clara's here because she's good at what she does, and so are you. Now go do your job."

**AN: Please tell me what you think! :') Til next timee**


	6. Chapter 6

******AN: Thank you for the continued encouragement and interest in this little project :') I can't tell you how much each single follower and fave means. I hope this satisfies another week-long wait!**

**Disclaimer: _Inception_ belongs to Christopher Nolan and Warner Bros.**

_**The Absolute Basic**_

**Chapter Six**

_The underground basement was dingy and damp, with a whiff of cobwebs and dust. Eames stood in front of the cracked mirror, brooding silently. Arthur had requested Eames' assistance on a particularly tricky case, and had also unexpectedly invited Clara to witness what went on in his 'career'. Eames had overheard him talking to her a week ago, saying how Clara didn't have to go into the field but was welcome to watch and observe. She had been a part of their world for over a month now, but Eames wasn't sure Arthur had made the right call. She was just too simple, and didn't seem to fit in with the tasks ahead of them._

_Right now, though, Arthur was somewhere else, doing background checks and hacking into sophisticated security systems in preparation for the Extraction. Clara and Eames had been left to their own devices. Arthur had given Clara the job of evaluating Eames' activities. She was seated on a desk chair, legs folded beneath her, and was watching Eames practise being someone else._

_He was trying his best to ignore the young woman behind him. Under normal circumstances, he would be alone in a room, free to experiment and fail as he so wished. Unfortunately, he had a guest with him today, and he wasn't used to the way her eyes bore into him so critically. _Just get on with it_, he thought to himself, sighing sharply. He was speaking under his breath in front of the mirror, trying out gestures and expressions, walking around in circles. On this particular occasion, he had been asked to impersonate the nineteen year old son of a wealthy but difficult mother, the subject of Arthur's Extraction. He was finding it quite hard to slip into the young man's mindset, which was a desire to outcompete his own mother in their shared line of business._

_"What's that?" Clara pointed out suddenly, breaking Eames out of his low, murmuring monologue._

_Eames followed her gaze to the wallet he had stolen off the lad. "This thing?" he questioned, picking it up and giving it a twirl. "It's the kid's wallet."_

_"You stole his wallet?"_

_"So what?"_

_"That's terrible. I'd hate to have my wallet stolen."_

_Eames rounded on Clara. "Will you give the goody two-shoes act a rest? I'm trying to concentrate here."_

_Clara pouted and hugged her knees to her chest, but said nothing further._

_Eames grunted and turned back to face the mirror. But in the corner of the glass he could see Clara trying to drill holes in his back purely through the power of her glare._

_He turned around to face her again. "Listen, I'm trying to help the fella without him knowing it, all right? His business partner asked us to steal the mother's business agendas and he simply can't afford to let his buddy's mom outcompete them." Eames waved the wallet in the air. "This shows a lot. Where the kid spends his time, what's important to him, the lot."_

_Clara shrugged. "Why can't you find that out by spying on him?"_

_"Well, I sometimes do that, but we're running short on time." Eames chucked the wallet back onto the table. "This is faster."_

_"Still isn't right to steal."_

_Eames raised an eyebrow at her. "You act just like an annoying conscience, y'know that?"_

_Clara narrowed her eyes. "I don't like your tone of voice."_

_"What's wrong with it?"_

_"It's patronizing."_

_"Well, sorry love, but you're making it rather difficult not to be with all your questions," Eames replied curtly._

_Clara stood up and moved closer to him, hands sifting through the papers. "I bet I could do your job better than you could," she laughed._

_"Don't flatter yourself."_

_She smirked. "You've been giving me lessons on Forging, and you yourself said I'm improving quickly."_

_"But I'm still the best Forger around." Eames sighed roughly and faced her fully. "And, to be perfectly honest, darling, the only reason I'm giving you those private lessons is because of that drop-dead gorgeous body."_

_He had meant it as a joke, a laugh. He was always teasing her, teasing everyone. It was his way of hiding his own damning flaws. And he had seen much more curvaceous and sensuous women, anyway. But somehow - maybe because he had been talking to himself for so long, practising his new role - his voice had suddenly dropped, and had come out raspy and quiet. As if attempting to be seductive. Or maybe it had just been the poor lighting in that basement, and the earthy scent that clung to their clothes. Or it could have even been the fact that they were entirely alone. It was just the two of them in that limited basement, separated by a few intimate steps that she could have taken toward him, and he lost all logical thought in the beat after those words came out, feeling both cunning and mistaken at the same time._

_But all the conscientious girl did was grin and look back down at the pages. She didn't even blush. She didn't fall for his trap, which - really, truthfully - had never been intentional. She was unfazed._

_Didn't even stumble._

_That really pissed him off._

_So he let out his frustration and kissed her bittersweet mouth._

* * *

Clara waited by the Arrivals gate in Heathrow Terminal Four. She leaned against the metal railing, which ran parallel with the far wall and guided the travellers out of Baggage Reclaim. Even though it was noon on a Tuesday, there were still too many people crowded around her. She could hear them shifting from foot to foot, waiting to pick up loved ones, old friends, co-workers...

Digging her hand in her jeans pocket, Clara took out the photo of the girl she was waiting to pick up. The creased photo showed the brunette - Ariadne - with her wavy locks and inquisitive brown eyes. Clara smiled. She had to admit, Ariadne did remind her a little of herself. Ariadne was just about done with college and was already immersed in the world of Dream-sharing, just like how Clara had entered this whole fiasco. She felt a little surge of relief to know there was going to be someone so similar and relatable nearby. Arthur was friendly enough, but it had always been difficult to connect to him on a personal level.

Clara looked up and propped her chin on her fist, tapping her foot lightly. She had volunteered to pick the girl up because Arthur had looked extremely busy, and Eames had been pouring over Trollope's personal information and history. Clara's job only started once she had all that information, so she thought she might as well pick up Ariadne and brief her on the way to the warehouse.

At last, her eyes landed on a flicker of bouncing brown curls. Clara waited until the person walked a bit closer, then called out, "Ariadne?" She gave a little wave to the younger woman.

Ariadne spun on the spot, nearly knocking into several other people. She quickly apologized, then walked briskly around the railings and up to Clara.

"It is Ariadne, right?" repeated Clara. Ariadne nodded, smiling graciously. Clara offered her hand out and Ariadne shook it with a firm grip. "Hey, I'm Clara. Thanks for agreeing to work with us. I'm sorry we're distracting you from your course."

"Don't worry about it," replied Ariadne with a grin. "To be honest, ever since the Fischer job I've never really been able to concentrate fully."

Clara chuckled. "It definitely does that to you."

They started walking toward the exit, making their way out the sliding doors and toward the taxi stand. Clara helped put Ariadne's small suitcase in the trunk and gave the driver the closest street to the warehouse. The two women settled back in their seats, Ariadne sighing softly and leaning her head against the headrest.

"Long journey?" Clara asked, secretly observing the student.

Ariadne shook her head. "Not really. I flew in from Paris." She grinned toothily at Clara. "Arthur told me you flew in from Hong Kong."

Clara laughed, straightening out some wrinkles in her jeans. "Yeah. Freaking eleven hour flight. It was hell."

Ariadne made a sympathetic tutting noise, and Clara was about to start briefing her when Ariadne then piped, "I've never been to Hong Kong. What's it like there?"

"Really, really hot," Clara confessed. "But really friendly, too. And the food's amazing. Ever tried dim sum?"

She watched as Ariadne's eyes flashed. "No, but my friends have tried it. They said it's like sushi."

"It's nothing like sushi. They're two completely different things."

"What's dim sum then?"

Clara tried to describe the unique Hong Kong cuisine. "Well, they're like dumpling things that you have with Chinese tea in the afternoon..."

They talked like that, all the way till they got to the warehouse, so that when they arrived at the warehouse and Arthur asked, "Ariadne, got any ideas on how we're gonna do this?", both women were a little stunned and guilty.

Arthur frowned at them both. "I thought you were gonna brief her," Arthur directed at Clara.

She shrugged sheepishly. "Sorry. Let's just say I can see why you like her now."

Ariadne beamed while Arthur puffed out his cheeks irritably.

Eames walked up to their little gathering and flung his arms open at Ariadne, grinning broadly. "Come here you little bugger."

"Pleasure to see you again, Eames," Ariadne replied and cautiously hugged the strange man. Clara felt something twitch in her chest, but she ignored it.

"Eames, did you talk to Yusuf yet?" Arthur asked, and Clara wondered if she was the only one feeling a seedling of jealousy.

"Yes, I have," Eames replied smoothly, relinquishing Ariadne and turning to Arthur. "He said he'd help us out as soon as he's done with whatever he's doing at the moment. I'll bring him over when I fly back from Chicago."

"When are you leaving for the States?" Clara asked, almost too quickly.

"Tonight. I need to start getting those references and learning about our Mr. Trollope and ex-Mrs. Trollope."

"Why're you focusing on his ex-wife?" Arthur interjected, creases appearing between his eyebrows. "They're divorced, there's got to be a lot of negative emotions in there. Cobb said to work on positive ones instead."

"Well, that's just the thing. What if Trollope still loves his ex-wife? If not, I'll focus on the two kids, but we can play on those lost-love feelings to give the idea more depth and motive. As Cobb put it, a bigger catharsis."

"The problem is," Clara added, ignoring Ariadne's thoroughly confused look, "we don't even know what idea we're gonna plant yet. So we can't decide what to focus on."

"I need to know more about Trollope as it is," Eames argued. "And I'll be in Chicago for a week. I'll do a broad spectrum of things but keep low." He tilted his head to the side. "Happy?"

Clara bit the inside of her cheek and ran a hand over her neck. "No. Just make sure you don't get caught. And bring this Yusuf over when you're done. Arthur told me the drug needs working on, and I can help with that."

"Aye, aye, ma'am."

* * *

It had been a long day, what with welcoming and briefing Ariadne as well as gathering all the relevant files Eames needed for the next week. The sun had set (it was always dark before six o'clock in London), and the cracked warehouse windows showed a deep purple sky. They hadn't bothered with turning on the main lights; only a few desk lamps were on, creating small arcs of yellow light.

Eames checked his shoulder bag one last time. He had personal files, lists of information, fake passports. Everything seemed to be in place for tonight's flight. He quickly swept up his watch. Five-thirty five. He had sufficient time to get back to his apartment, pack a few sets of clothes, and head out for the airport. It was going to be a long flight, and Eames wanted to travel light.

Zipping up the bag with a final yank, Eames slung it over his chest and headed for the door, but he stopped in his tracks.

Clara, Arthur and Ariadne were huddled around a lamp like children by the fireplace, going through some blueprints and trying to come up with a plausible idea to plant in Trollope's mind. Even from afar, Eames could see the way Clara's eyes would light up whenever she looked at Arthur to exchange thoughts.

She had always admired him, Eames knew that. She had always preferred Arthur over him, because Arthur seemed proper. More human, even. And that was stupid, really. Arthur, the man with no imagination. How could he have ever seemed more human than Eames? Arthur was a good man in Eames' eyes, a dependable figure, but robotic, minimalistic, and too intelligent for his own damn good. And yet, because he had that professional, watered down look, Clara was fond of Arthur in ways that were totally foreign to Eames. Eames was not as narrow-sighted as her, to so easily think so good of someone, yet Clara was always able to summon up the most ridiculous reasons to trust, no matter how dirty, how cheap, how stale their past was.

Except for Eames.

Maybe that was why he had fucked her in the basement.


	7. Chapter 7

**AN: Thank you very much to Ninavs2, smashley007 and an anonymous reviewer for reviewing! :') You readers make me very happy teehee.**

**Disclaimer: _Inception _belongs to Christopher Nolan and Warner Bros.**

_**The Absolute Basic**_

**Chapter Seven**

October faded into a cruel, bitter November. The temperature gradually dropped to around eight or nine degrees Celsius, leaving the team no choice but to come in each morning wrapped up in scarves and coats. Frost sometimes decorated the windows as they worked, but the worst was yet to come.

Clara was presently helping Ariadne with the planning of the levels. As usual, they were going to need mazes. They had decided to play on the CEO's attachment to his wife, letting the first level be a seaside resort similar (but not identical, as Cobb had often warned them) to their honeymoon destination.

"But would he make the connection?" asked Clara. "With the resort in our dream and his honeymoon?"

Ariadne nodded, assured. "I think so. It can't be too full-on, can it? Subtlety is needed here. I'll add small details in that are the same. Like, maybe the paintings on the walls. Or the carpets. Or-"

"Just make sure you get the detail _spot on,_" Arthur warned, listening in on their progress as he made notes. "Our Architect in the COBOL job gave everything away with a stupid mistake he made with the carpet."

Ariadne grimaced. "I'll be careful," she decided.

Clara moved various pieces of cardboard around, on which they had sketched out the basic layout of the hotel, including the room where they would send themselves into a further dream.

All the planning, all the coordination was making Clara dizzy with reminiscence. It was so unreal to be here again, plotting and creating. Her gaze swept the warehouse, which was not entirely unlike the ones she and Arthur and Cobb had worked in.

Eames, too.

"_That's your totem?" he asked, voice genuinely curious._

_She felt so proud._

But he wasn't here today. Nor had he been here yesterday, or even the day before. She hadn't realized just how full of life the man was. The past few days had been surprisingly peaceful, rid of worries over how to smile and how to speak. It had been very quiet.

Too quiet.

"I'll leave you guys to the designing," Clara murmured, ignoring their glances and throwing on her navy blue coat. "Coffee, anyone?"

"Yes, please," Ariadne answered, the prospect of a hot drink clearly welcomed.

"Arthur?"

She didn't like the way he was watching her, like he knew what she was up to. She stared back at him, waiting for his measured reply. He at last said, "No, thanks," and bent over his work again, discussing with Ariadne.

Clara left them at it, wrapping herself warm and bracing herself against the biting wind outside. For a second, she thought she saw a shadow of a man flickering a few steps from her. She turned, but saw no one. Feeling uneasy, she followed the Thames, occasionally allowing her fingers to skim over the railings, the icy-hot metal sending sparks through her bones. She sighed, and a burst of white cloud appeared in front of her, disappearing almost immediately.

The Starbucks was just around the corner.

She just needed some time to surrender (_don't think, don't remember) _and to think, to remember.

"_Have you got your totem yet?" asked Eames, sitting one one of Cobb's couch._

_Clara nodded from across the room, she was sitting on the carpet with her back against the wall._

"_Really?" he said. "That was fast."_

"_I told her to make one as soon as possible," supplied Cobb, seated on the other end of the sofa, opposite Eames. "She's too keen for her own good, and that can be dangerous."_

"_How right you are, old man," Eames chuckled, and he leaned forward on his knees to look at Clara. "Can I see it?"_

_Clara hesitated, but Cobb gave her a swift nod. She trusted him, believed in him in so many frightening shapes and forms. So she smiled and reached behind her neck, quietly unclasping a necklace and holding it out in front of her. It consisted nothing more than a thin metal chain and a small, silver conch seashell, about the size of her thumb._

"_That's your totem?" Eames asked, voice genuinely curious._

_She felt so proud. She nodded._

"_It's cute," Eames remarked._

_Clara rolled her eyes. "It took awhile to make, but I think I got the shape just right..."_

"_How does it work?"_

_Again, Clara turned to Cobb, who nodded. "Go on. As long as he doesn't touch it, it's fine."_

"_Okay then. Well...when I bring it close to my ear, I don't hear anything. Not even the ocean; the shell isn't big enough and, well, it's made of metal." She smiled, loving how her totem had surprised her when she entered a dream the other day. "But when I'm dreaming, and I bring it to my ear, I hear music."_

_There was a pause, then Eames whistled. "Impressive."_

_Clara bowed her head. "Thanks."_

"_So what do you hear? Do you hear different music each time or..." Cobb's question drifted off._

_She tilted her head to the side. "_Liebesträume._"_

"_Bless you."_

_Clara frowned at Eames. "It's by Liszt. It's called '_Dreams of Love' _in English."_

_Eames exaggerated a sigh. "How romantic."_

_Cobb scoffed at Eames. "Like you would know anything about romance."_

"_Are you joking? I've got girls trailing after me like hounds."_

"_Oh really?" Clara quipped, putting her necklace back on._

"'_course. All I do is treat 'em to dinner and red wine and they're baited."_

_Cobb wrinkled his nose. "Please don't talk like that in front of Mal."_

_Clara continued badgering Eames, "And I suppose you don't tell them that you're a thief?"_

_Eames winked. "But everyone knows that's the best part."_

_Clara exchanged looks with Cobb before fixing her velvet eyes on him. "Yes, how romantic."_

"Thank you so much."

Ariadne was practically all over Clara in her haste to grab her coffee. Clara handed it over with a flash of a smile and moved away from the others in order to go through the week's newspapers to find anything relevant to their case. It was important to keep up-to-date. Anything could happen in the world of business. It was a fast-paced game of chance and bravado and whatever that special spark was.

Clara sat down at a separate desk and grabbed the large file of newspapers, setting it in front of her and scanning the first page, sipping her coffee; the steam rolled around her face, warming her pink-tinted cheeks. She shrugged off her coat and sighed, feeling slightly energized and heated.

"Found anything?" came Arthur's voice after about twenty minutes of silent reading.

Clara glanced over her shoulder as he walked toward her. She showed him one of the clippings she had cut out. "Nothing important except this."

Arthur leaned forward to inspect the news article. Clara helped explain, "It's about Trollope's wife. There's been rumours about her planning to remarry and become business partners with her suspected new boyfriend."

Arthur rubbed his chin. "I see. Good. We can use this." He patted her on the shoulder. "Thanks."

Clara smiled up at him. "You sure you don't want some coffee?" She offered her own cup.

"It's fine."

Arthur paused, and Clara knew what was coming next. You always knew when he was going to make a point, because Arthur was just the sort of person who got right to the heart of things.

"You act weird when he's here," he stated flatly. "And you act weird when he's gone."

Clara pretended to study another broadsheet. "It's none of your business, Arthur."

He scowled, and Clara immediately regretted her choice of words. "I'm sorry," she muttered quickly.

"Can't you just forget whatever's on your mind?"

Clara bit her lip angrily. "No. You're asking the impossible of me. You can't expect me to just forget-"

She stopped herself right there.

Arthur leaned in an inch closer. "Who can't you forget, Clara?"

She saw in his face that he already knew.

Clara felt the cold creep back into her body, and she took the newspapers to a different desk, away from Arthur and his prying questions and his deduced answers.

* * *

Eames sat in the back of the Chicago conference room, quietly taking notes as Stephen Trollope stood and ordered his workers around. They were posing questions on how to manage their sector of the hotel company, and were completely ignoring the British man behind them, who had been introduced as a reporter doing an insider's article into the workings of the company (he had already made arrangements and had shown them his ID), but was really, in fact, a thief.

As the meeting stretched on, Eames was starting to learn Trollope's personality. He was not stubborn. Instead, he seemed more cautious. He was a man who felt safe in his own plans and ideas, instead of other people's suggestions. This was only going to make the Inception harder. Eames sighed quietly as he scratched his temple. And Trollope was loud, too, talking over people and bordering on the edge of rudeness. He was a difficult man, no doubt, but all this information would be vital to the team.

Eames had also acquired some knowledge about Trollope's closest friend. The CEO of Dynasty Resorts had received a phone call in the middle of the meeting. A man named Daniel Tuck. Trollope had paused the meeting just to speak to the man. Eames had jotted down the name quickly, and had picked up a few words about golfing and a dinner.

Throughout the rest of the day, Eames tailed the older man around, asking questions here and there to appear interested. In truth, though, he was secretly observing his every move. What he found annoying, what he approved of, how he expressed himself. He suspected that, this time, analyzing the Mark was just as vital as surveying his ex-wife. He followed the man up and down flights of stairs, around department blocks, in and out of rooms...

Yet his mind kept drifting back to her.

How was she coping back there? Was it cold (of course she was, it was November in London)? Did she feel like a third wheel with Ariadne and Arthur around? He grinned a bit at this thought, then fought the expression off his face. He had no right to joke about her. Not like this, not yet.

Inappropriate.

Thoughtless.

"_Has anyone told you just how thoughtless you are?"_

"Snap out of it," he murmured under his breath, smoothing his hair back as he wrote down a few more words.

This was boring, though. And he had gathered enough information. He was just loitering, continuing on for the sake of it.

How foolish of him. How pointless.

How thoughtless.

"_Has anyone told you just how thoughtless you are?" Clara snapped at him, following him up the empty and dark lamp-lit street._

"_You're not the first to say so, love," Eames retorted through gritted teeth. He quickened his pace, trying to lose her, but she was suddenly in front of him like a (fragile) brick wall._

"_Has it never occurred to you that your actions actually have consequences?"_

"_Oh, no, Ms. Etheridge. That has _never _occurred to me."_

"_Don't be sarcastic, Eames. You...you shot a man today!"_

_Eames stopped trying to walk around her and stared at her. "I was trying to protect us. That man was out to kill, don't you get it?"_

"_Only because we stole from him-"_

"_Oh, I'm not allowed to steal, but it's fine for him to try and kill me?"_

_Clara's eyes hardened. "Exactly my point. Stealing has consequences."_

"_I seem to remember that you were actually willing to help me with this one. Hypocrisy has no place here, so if you're quite done lecturing me-"_

"_I'm not lecturing you. I'm trying to get you to grow up!"_

"_Grow up?" Eames spat out with a laugh. "Grow up?! No. _You _grow up, Clara. The world isn't full of good people and you can't expect me to be so - so goddamn normal!"_

"_Normal? What-"_

_Eames snarled in frustration and kicked the pavement. "Oh for God's sake you know what I mean! We're not like you, Clara. We don't live in the same world as you do. We can't see your fucking quixotic reality. We're not perfect people; we're twisted and - I'm bloody sorry to tell you this - we simply can't live up to your expectations!"_

"_But Arthur-"_

"_You think Arthur's some kind of angel? Get real. He's fake, like the rest of us. And you think Cobb is any better? You can't change us, darling. We were born fucked up."_

_Clara shook her head, and Eames wanted to reach out and shake her. "You're not fucked up, Eames," she stated strongly. The swear word sounded so heavy on her tongue. Eames looked away._

"_I am. You keep saying so."_

"_No, you're not. You're just-"_

"_Wrong."_

"_No."_

"_Ignorant."_

"_That's not-"_

"_Scary." Eames took a step forward. "Are you scared of me?"_

_He felt a vivid memory of skin and moaned breaths envelop him._

"_No." She was glowering at him, but even as he watched, those eyes began to change. Soften. Dim._

"_I'm not scared of you," Clara replied coldly, and stepped away from him. "I'm scared that you don't care."_


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer: _Inception _belongs to Christopher Nolan and Warner Bros.**

**AN: Many thank yous to my patient reviewers and readers! Love you all so much :') Xmas is almost upon us! Here's a chappie as an early present :)**

_**The Absolute Basic**_

**Chapter Eight**

"Ariadne, can you give Eames a call?" Arthur asked as they both arrived at the warehouse.

"Why can't you call him yourself?" she replied with a smirk. "Tired of all his flirting?"

Arthur sighed. "I suppose. But, in all seriousness, I've got a lot on my plate at the moment and I don't have the time."

She raised an eyebrow back at him. "Can't even spare a few minutes for him?"

Arthur threw his grey coat on the hanger with an ugly look on his face. "You're right. I _am _tired of his flirting."

Ariadne chuckled and unwrapped her scarf from around her neck. "Fair enough. What do you want me to say?"

Arthur passed her a piece of paper with Eames' phone number on it. "Just tell him to send me the info as soon as possible. We need to start deciding on this idea we're gonna plant. We need to stop researching and start implementing."

"That's a very purposeful way of putting it."

Ariadne took out her phone and headed for the sofa, but Arthur put a hand on her arm. He was smiling at her. "Thanks."

She shrugged and looked down at her phone, letting her hair slip a little into her face. "Not a problem."

Ariadne watched him move to the other side of the room, then sighed and sat on a filthy and springy sofa. She punched the numbers into her phone, trying not to think about the way Arthur had smiled at her. She never would have admitted it, but Ariadne had missed that charming, understanding smile.

And his handsome face, of course.

She put the phone to her ear, waiting for Eames to pick up. It took a while, but the line finally clicked through. "Hello?" came Eames' rather throaty voice.

"Hey, it's me," said Ariadne, careful not to use any names just in case Eames was in earshot of anyone. The line was a secure one, but Eames might have been surrounded by Dynasty employees for all she knew. "Can you talk right now?"

"Yup, coast is clear." He sounded groggy.

"Are you sure? Where are you?"

"Nowhere interesting. Just in bed." His voice became louder. "At bloody four o'clock in the morning."

Ariadne froze, then giggled. "Oops. Time zones. Sorry."

"You better be sorry."

"I am. Really sorry."

He sighed heavily, and Ariadne could hear his bed sheets rustling. "What do you want?"

"Arthur wants your research as soon as possible-"

"And we need Yusuf!" Arthur added from across the room.

"-and we need you to bring Yusuf over too," finished Ariadne.

There was a tired silence, then Eames yawned and said, "Oh fine. I'll cut my trip short. Gimme one more day and I'll fly back with Yusuf. I've got pretty much all I need here anyway."

"Good. That's that then. Hope you can get back to sleep."

"I'll work on that. How's Clara?"

Ariadne looked around the spacious warehouse. "She's not in yet. She's doing stuff, but she needs Arthur's research and your stuff to really get going."

"Mhm."

Ariadne could have hung up right there and then, but she decided to ask, "Do you know Clara from before?"

"Yeah."

"Did you guys have a fight or something?"

Silence. "You could call it that."

"And you haven't made up yet?"

"Is it that obvious?"

Ariadne shrugged. "I guessed. Besides, you only asked about her."

"So?"

"You didn't ask how _I_ was doing. Or Arthur."

She could see the grin on his stubbled face. "Apologies. How're you two sweethearts getting along, then?"

Ariadne smiled. "Go to sleep, Mr. Eames."

* * *

"Ariadne?" Eames tried, but the line had went dead.

Swearing under his breath, Eames put the phone down and rolled onto his back. The overbearing darkness in the hotel room was not pitch black, but a murky, honeyed colour, covering every inch of the intricate decorations and furniture.

He shut his eyes and took a deep breath, consciously trying to relax.

He was trying too hard. It wasn't working.

Falling asleep had become more difficult over the past few years. Dreams - real dreams, natural ones - had come and gone irregularly, and it was scaring him. Sleep had never been so terrifying.

Childishly, he thought back on his conversation with Ariadne. Simply hearing about Clara, even in the most indirect way, was in itself a form of comfort. While he was separated from her like this, he was at least able to (once again) pretend that the miles of land and sea were the cause of their distance, and not because of...whatever that _was _between them...

"_Do you like me?" The question was rushed out his lips._

_A smile curling away. "Maybe."_

_Eames frowned. Muttered: "So...yes."_

"_Could mean yes. Could mean no."_

"_You're being very difficult."_

"_Well, you know what they say: love is hard." Her voice rose and fell like poisonous champagne._

_He felt a stone drop in his chest. "So you love me then."_

_This time, she stared right into his face._

"_No, Eames, I don't."_

Eames slipped his hands behind his head and watched the light of dawn descend.

* * *

Clara jogged her way into the warehouse, shoving the doors closed behind her. She swore that every time she went outside the wind decided to pick itself up. She patted her dry cheeks, trying to get some feeling back into them. She looked up and saw Ariadne working on some scaled down models of the first level, which was still in progress. Arthur was there, too, but he was connected to the PASIV device and looked fast asleep.

"What's he doing?" Clara asked, gesturing to Arthur as she sat down at Ariadne's table.

Ariadne shrugged, peeking past her long hair to look at him. "Not really sure. Trying out some paradoxes, I think."

Clara nodded in approval. "Good, we need all the practise we can get on this one." She thought for a while. "Maybe we could call Cobb for some advice."

Ariadne shook her head.

"Why not?" Clara turned to her.

Ariadne fiddled with her fingers before saying, "Don't tempt him back here. Please. It was so difficult for him to get back to his kids, and he's finally happy now." But at this she let out a shallow laugh. "Well, as happy as he can be without Mal."

Clara could sense the well of protectiveness Ariadne felt for Cobb. It was the same thing Clara herself felt for the man; a sort of unconditional dedication that was akin to loyalty and blind, stupid trust. She didn't pursue the subject; she didn't want to cause any more conflicts with any more of her team members.

But Ariadne sighed. "Since you brought him up, let me tell you this. When I was working with him, he was struggling with Mal's death. _A lot. _The Inception nearly failed because Mal kept finding her way into the dreams."

Clara didn't like where the conversation was headed. "That's terrible." She looked away and moved her files around the table aimlessly. "Well, at least you managed to pull through."

"Yeah, we were very lucky," Ariadne replied, watching Clara. She gave in and sketched out another level of the dream, experimenting with patterns and layouts. Clara left her to it and opened up her laptop, ready to do more research on Trollope's relationship with his ex-wife and how they had split up.

Everything was quiet, rather hushed. They worked like this for about two hours, making good progress with accumulating details. Ariadne was on another computer, now, finding satellite images and interior designs of the hotel the Trollopes had spent their honeymoon at. The concentrated, mutual silence was only broken by occasional sighs or the scraping of a chair or the scratch of pen on paper. Clara had forgotten how the research phase was actually quite civil, normal. Even a little boring.

At last, someone yawned and stretched. Clara jumped at the noise, then saw Arthur stand up and walk over to one of the windows, massaging his brow. "I'm going to need glasses soon," he said with a little laugh.

Ariadne smirked next to Clara. "You could totally pull off the cute nerd look," she murmured under her breath so that only Clara could hear.

Clara chuckled and gave Ariadne a suggestive look. "Arthur, hm?"

Ariadne shrugged, grinning a little shyly for the first time. "Maybe."

Clara tilted her head to the head. "Does that mean yes?"

Ariadne shook her head. "Just...maybe. We'll see."

"What're you guys talking about over here?" Arthur called from the window.

Clara waved at him and showed him one of Ariadne's sketches. "Still planning. We really need to start bringing this to life. When's Eames coming back?"

"Day after tomorrow. He's cutting his trip short."

Clara nodded. "Good. This is taking way too long. You realize we've got less than a month to work this out?"

Arthur frowned. "It'll be fine. Once everyone's together we can start moving this thing along." He glanced down at his watch. "It's nearly twelve-thirty. Are you guys heading out for lunch?"

Ariadne's head popped up at the mention of food. "Definitely. But can we get something else apart from sandwiches? It's too cold outside."

Arthur rolled his eyes. "Sure, get yourself something hot." He made to go back to his desk.

Clara stood up and stretched her arms over her head. "Aren't you coming, Arthur?"

The Pointman shook his head resolutely. "You two go ahead. Like you said, we've got less than a month." He scratched the back of his neck and looked over his shoulder with a grim smile. "I want to make sure I've absolutely got everything so you can start leading the way."

Clara felt a hint of something close to adoration for his words. "You're sweet, Arthur. Thanks. I can get you a drink if you like."

Arthur considered. "Hot chocolate, please."

Clara shrugged on her coat while Ariadne draped a pretty little scarf around her own neck. "You got it." She turned to Ariadne. "Ready?"

The younger woman nodded, and they both set out against the familiar bite of a winter-tainted November noon.

"You can buy him the chocolate," Clara said mischievously, secretly eyeing her companion for a reaction.

Ariadne seemed to glow with the idea of delivering the hot beverage to Arthur, yet her voice was calm and cool. "Sure, okay."

Clara bit her bottom lip in a girlish grin. She didn't know what was getting into her lately, but she found it fun to tease Ariadne. It was almost like a way to destress herself, by taking it out on others. "Eames told me he kissed you."

At this Ariadne threw back her head and laughed gaily. "My God. That guy just can't keep a secret."

"Arthur? Or Eames?" Clara chuckled.

Ariadne pondered the question. "Both," she decided, and they laughed in unison.

"I've been meaning to ask you," the university student went on as they joined the throng of people mingling on the streets. "How did you meet Arthur and the rest?"

"I met Arthur at a pub, believe it or not," Clara mused, "while I was still at university. It was weird. I don't know why but he just looked and seemed like a really interesting guy to talk to. And thank God he didn't find me annoying otherwise I never would have known about the dreams."

"And Eames? How did you meet him?"

"Through Arthur. He brought me back to Cobb's and I sorta scraped into their group."

"But you quit, didn't you?" Ariadne continued to ask. "Arthur told me you haven't been doing Extractions for years."

Clara folded her arms across her chest, weaving her way around the crowd. "Yeah, well, I got fed up of it, I guess."

"Why?"

Clara shrugged. "Guilty conscience. Dangerous people. The lot."

"You must've missed them. The team, I mean. Cobb, Arthur, and Eames."

"Not really, we were...very professional back then."

"Even with Eames?"

Clara's insides were knotted. "Yeah. Just...professional."

"Really?" A beat's hesitation. "Clara..."

"What?"

"You can tell me the truth. You have to. Don't be like Cobb-"

"Oh look, let's go in here. We mustn't keep Arthur waiting for that hot chocolate."


	9. Chapter 9

**AN: Much love to you amazing readers. I appreciate every single one of you blargh Merry Christmas and Happy New Year! :D**

**Disclaimer: _Inception _belongs to Christopher Nolan and Warner Bros.**

_**The Absolute Basic**_

**Chapter Nine**

Eames stuffed everything back into his suitcase. He scanned the hotel room one more time before opening the door and leaving for the elevators.

He had managed to learn practically everything about Trollope, his ex-wife (a lovely lady called Abby Friedman) and the best friend, Daniel Tuck. The research part was always the simplest. The hard part was yet to come.

Hailing a taxi once he got outside, Eames climbed into the back seat and told the driver to go to O'Hare International Airport. He relaxed into the seat, feeling something close to fondness for the place. A small part of him always became attached to wherever he had to work, and lately he found it wearing him down. Maybe it was all part of getting into character. Trollope surely must have feelings for the amazing city of Chicago, and Eames was starting to feel a little blue now that he was leaving for London.

_Sentimental git, _he cursed himself. _You'll be back before you know it._

Checking through his flight information and numerous files of notes, Eames found something unexpected hidden in one of his bag pockets. He took out the forgotten item and glanced at it. It was another fake passport, this one of Canadian nationality. He chuckled to himself; when had he used this piece of equipment? He flicked through it until he found the photo page, and his little smile was suddenly gone.

Clara's face was staring right back at him.

And he understood. He had forged this for her use.

He groaned and wanted to put it away, but he found that he couldn't help taking in her features. With great self-control he forced himself to read the fake name. Joan Cinder.

Had there been a time when he had asked her to use this? Perhaps for her own safety? He couldn't quite remember. It seemed vague. One thing he was certain of, though; she would never have approved.

Eames shoved it back into his bag and thought no more of it.

* * *

"When will Eames get back to London?" Clara asked Arthur the next morning.

"Around one o'clock in the afternoon." By the looks of it Arthur had already been in the warehouse for a good hour or so. He glanced up as she sat down next to him. "I've asked him to come straight over here so we can start discussing what we're gonna do."

She sat on her edge of the table beside him. "About that...I was thinking, actually...should I call Dom about this?"

Arthur immediately stiffened, and his brown eyes were dead-serious as they stared her down. "That's not such a good idea, Clara," he said, and leaned in closer. "Are you worried about the job? Because you can do this, I promise you."

Clara smiled. "You don't know that."

Arthur wagged a finger at her. "You've been teaching people how to train their subconscious. You must know ways around that type of security."

Clara ran her hand over her forehead, sighing. "I dunno. Maybe. I...I've never thought about it like that."

Arthur smiled wanly, returning to his work. "Of course youwouldn't."

Lines creased into existence between her eyebrows. "And what is that supposed to mean, exactly?"

Arthur didn't bother glancing up from his laptop. "It's a compliment."

"Elaborate."

"You're too..." Arthur paused for the appropriate word. "Too nice."

Clara smirked. "And too safe."

Arthur tilted his head to one side. "That too. Too safe." And that was when he met her gaze again. "Is that why you left?"

Why were they continuing to pester her on this one, small, _irrelevant _detail? She shifted in her chair, producing a notebook from her bag and flipping to the last page of her notes. "Perhaps." She placed her hands on the paper: crisp, smooth, clean. "You can stop asking me about it now."

"I need to know, Clara. You need to settle whatever that's happened between you and-"

"Please stop telling me what to do," Clara bit back.

"Why? Because I couldn't possibly have any idea about what you're going through?"

Clara was on the verge of saying 'yes', but saw in his eyes that she was wrong. She looked away, ashamed. "Let's not do this."

Arthur blinked. "Do you hate him?"

"No! I-" Clara could hear herself becoming flustered. She sounded pathetic. "Arthur-"

"Okay, well tell him that. You're making him think that this is what it's about."

Clara felt her heart miss a beat. "Have you guys been talking?"

"No, but let me ask you this, Clara," Arthur went on, and she could hear that he was really becoming irritated by her. By Eames. By both of them. "Have you actually bothered to talk to him about it?"

"No-"

"You have to, Clara. I haven't asked him but I can just tell he's blaming himself for losing you." His penetrating eyes narrowed, and it was like he was trying to seek out the truth in her. "And it's not his fault you left, is it? At least not completely."

Clara shook her head, stunned by his revelations.

"So what happened?"

Clara couldn't say. The words were stuck in her befuddled heart. _Thud, thud, thud. _Guilt powered that selfish, beating muscle.

Arthur sighed. "Maybe you're right."

Clara stared at him in confusion.

"I said, maybe you're right. Maybe you can't do this job after all." His tone was stony.

"What?"

"You're just as broken a leader as Cobb was."

Clara's eyes flashed. "Arthur!"

"Then why can't you talk to Eames?"

"It's complicated." She shook her head to herself and ran her hands over her head.

"Just tell me."

She mentally hit herself and pushed herself away from the table. "I'm scared. That's it, that's all you need to know, all right?"

This seemed to surprise Arthur. "Scared of what?"

Clara didn't answer.

* * *

Ariadne arrived about half an hour after that little episode. Clara tried to ignore the fast pace of her heart, racing inside her ribcage like a dog desperate to escape the house. She sighed, listening to her own harsh, shaking breaths. Occasionally she shot peeks at Arthur, who was working with Ariadne today. He looked both at ease with the girl and yet troubled. Clara felt another heavy thump of regret and stared back down at her research.

Maybe Arthur's cold, analytical reasoning was right. Maybe she needed to shove away the fear and just talk to him - Eames. A few minutes would be enough, surely. Just in order to clear things up and to get Arthur off of her case for a while.

But could she really just tell him like that? After hiding for four years? She hadn't been lying when she had been talking to Arthur; it _was _complicated. There were so many things just thrown in there, turning her into a distant mess.

"_You're just as broken a leader as Cobb was."_

Clara had to try, though. It was only right, especially if it was true, what Arthur had said, that Eames blamed himself. Her heart lurched at the thought. There had been a time when Clara would never have believed in such a ridiculous notion, that Eames was capable of feeling self-disgust or remorse. How...how simple of her.

She would try. She'd wait, after he came back from the airport. Maybe pull him aside, or ask for a quick word. It was laughable, how she was so worked up by a few minutes' worth of speaking to the man.

"_This will never work, Eames. I can't trust you!"_

_His manner was rigid. "I never asked for trust."_

"_Then what the hell is this?!" She saw his lips on her neck, his hands groping blindly in the heat of things; she pushed the images away._

_And, as though he read her mind: "It's what adults do, Clara. I told you, grow up-"_

_The palm of her hand hitting his cheek felt good._

They all waited for him to return. Lunchtime came and went.

"Two o'clock," Arthur muttered in the cavernous warehouse, and they all continued working.

They went through a lot of plans, and even went under into Arthur's dream, to see some of the structures he had designed. Clara approved of them immediately, and hoped through this way he could forgive her for her stubbornness.

The timer on the PASIV device brought them all back to (_is it?_) reality. Clara picked at her necklace and returned to her paperwork.

Two-thirty. Two-forty. Clara eyes kept twitching back to her watch. She was such a nervous wreck, it was almost disgusting. It was Eames, just another Forger, just another human being. She twirled her pen between her fingers, deep in thought and yet not thinking at all.

_The second time was swifter, and she showed even less resistance. He was hungry for skin, and she didn't know it then, but she was ravenous for something even more than that. Something grimy that was close to trust but not quite as simple. But he didn't want anything else, and she probably - probably - knew that. Yet she let him have her again anyway, because a part of her craved him too. Craved him in that blind but exhilarating way that she was disgusted by._

_So she told herself not to overthink it. This was just what it was. No ties, no feelings, no nothing. She felt hot and vital to him when his hands were on her. The back of a car park, unglamorous, quick, wrong._

_He told her she was beautiful afterwards. She just smiled and faced away, buttoning up her shirt._

_She didn't object until the fourth time. And only weeks afterwards would she have the courage to slap him._

Tick, tock, tick, tock.

Three o'clock.

"How long does it take to get here from Heathrow?" asked Arthur out of the blue.

"Not that long," Ariadne supplied, and taking a guess: "Forty minutes?"

They settled down again and started typing, drawing, writing, planning, (three-thirty) talking, worrying...

"Maybe he went back to his apartment?" Ariadne said. It was four o'clock now. The November sky was an unsaturated violet.

Arthur took out his phone. "I'll give him a call."

They sat with baited breath, Clara sitting backwards in her chair, silently begging for Eames to pick up, even though there had to be a billion plausible reasons for his lateness; his flight could have easily been delayed, or maybe he had fallen asleep in his apartment, or maybe he was showing Yusuf around London...

After ten (or thirty) seconds, Arthur shook his head and cut the call off. "Not picking up," he muttered. He saw Clara watching him and gave her what looked like an attempt at a comforting smile. "Flight's probably delayed."

So they went back to work.

Darkness fell. Lights in the distance were flickering on, a bright contrast to the black canvas of the city. It was even starting to get colder; they could all hear the wind whistling outside, and the rush of the river beside them. Arthur tried the number again, but he was unsuccessful.

Clara was numb with anxiety. She could see her expression mirrored in the others, but she thought that hers must have been the strongest. Reluctantly, she shut down her laptop, already missing the glow of its screen, and made her way to the others. They were also packing up for the day. She checked her watch again in the shadows. Ten past six.

"Arthur, what's going on?" she muttered.

Arthur shook his head. "No idea. Maybe he missed his flight."

They both knew it wasn't as simple as that.

* * *

Arthur couldn't sleep that night. His mind was still buzzing from his conversation with Clara.

She was not a friend. She was something more, yet something less. Both important and insignificant. It wasn't as plain or obvious as friendship. His job (soul) often led to complex relationships, and this right here was one he had been pondering over for ages.

Friendship.

He turned onto his side on his hotel bed, sighing and listening to his own gentle breathing and the irregular whine of a car engine outside. He tried not to think, just to feel. To feel the softness of the pillow against his tired cheek, to feel his blood flowing throughout his body, to feel relaxed.

Only he wasn't.

Arthur could not relax. He sat up and leaned against the headboard of the bed, gazing tiredly into the dim shadows of the room. He wanted this job done, but there were so many twists and turns here and there, popping up in the most unexpected, disconcerting ways that made him want to look out for everyone. His mind went through each and every one of them, and as he pictured their faces one after the other, he felt a foreign embrace take over him.

There was Ariadne: her fresh smile, her eager willingness, her adorable-

There was Eames and Yusuf, and even Dom: their gaping, disturbing absence.

There was Clara: her deteriorating vigilance, her distorted mind, a maze of thoughts.

There was Arthur: wondering how he felt about these people.

And never before had he thought about people like this, ever.


	10. Chapter 10

**AN: Apologies for the wait! I had mock exams this week and blergh my wrist feels like lead. Thanks to smashley007 and SARAHBABE215 for reviewing. :)**

**Disc****laimer: _Inception _belongs to Christopher Nolan and Warner Bros.**

_**The Absolute Basic**_

**Chapter Ten**

Where was he?

Clara sat up in the small serviced apartment bedroom. The feel of the thin bed covers was still strange and unwelcoming. She stayed still, letting the chill in the room sink into her bare arms.

Slowly, she got out of bed and took a shower, her mind elsewhere. Worrying.

Where was he?

"_Dom, where's Eames?"_

_Dom looked up from his plate of pasta. "Upstairs helping me fix that damn window, I think. Why?"_

_Clara tried to look casual and sat opposite him by the dining table (she was always self-conscious at the mention of Eames' name, even now, days before he would take advantage of her). "He's giving me Forging lessons."_

_Dom smiled and bit into another forkful of his lunch. "Wonderful. How're you finding them?"_

"_Difficult, but incredibly interesting. I had my first one on Monday. It's basically acting, isn't it?"_

_Dom nodded and swallowed. "Yes, acting. But more than that. It's very in-depth, very detailed, very...creative." He took a sip from a glance of water. "Who are you trying to impersonate?"_

"_Eames."_

_Dom blinked, then laughed. "Very good. You'll learn all there is to know about him. You'd make the perfect second Eames."_

_Clara laughed with him. "Oh I don't know. I couldn't keep such a egoistic head on my shoulders."_

"_Why are you Forging him, though? Why not choose one of the targets for one of his jobs?"_

_A part of her brain struggled to explain: _Because I want to know who he really is, and what goes on in his mind when he laughs or frowns or looks at me. Because I want to be able to understand his metamorphic thoughts, the ones that would form sentences with those lips and throw me into confusion. Because I want to at least pretend to be able to see the real person under all those layers of faces and costumes and skin, to see if there is actually anyone there. Because I want to find out if I'm right about this one thing: that Eames is drowning inside himself and can't remember who he is outside those dreams.

"_Because it just sounded fun."_

* * *

With the Thames running along her right, Ariadne traced the all-too familiar path to the warehouse that morning with a loaded mind. She couldn't quite understand why Eames hadn't arrived yesterday. She didn't know what to feel, because she had never known what she felt for the Forger. He was loud and humourous, but was also very subtle in what he did as a job.

She knew that there were dangers with working in the Dream world. After her run with Cobb and the team, Arthur had persuaded her to lie low for a good few months till there were no more questions asked about the Fischer Morrow fiasco. She had laughed at his concern, but now was seeing just how quickly one could be caught by certain enemies...

No. Eames hadn't be caught. It was impossible. He was fast, slick, and knew his way around the world. References. Hadn't he said something about references? There should have been no real threat to his returning. Maybe he really did oversleep and miss his flight back to London.

Footsteps up ahead brought Ariadne's attention to the present. Her eyes landed on Clara's figure. She was walking briskly, too far to notice Ariadne, but close enough for Ariadne to see that she was wearing a thick hoodie. Very casual, very fake.

Ariadne had steered clear of Clara after their talk about Clara's past. Ariadne had thought Clara would be all smiles and jokes, but she could feel something inside her just waiting to burst out. And Ariadne wasn't sure she wanted to find out what it was.

There was a blur of movement to her left. Ariadne's eyes left Clara and instead focused on a hazy figure. By the person's build, Ariadne could tell it was a man, but she was too far away to identify the face. The stranger was walking forward, in the direction Clara and Ariadne were going. They approached the warehouse. Clara entered, and the man stopped. He was simply standing there, as though observing the architecture of the run-down warehouse. His head was tipped back, staring upward.

Then, abruptly, he walked into the alleyway that was squashed between the warehouse and the next building, and disappeared from sight.

Ariadne quickened her pace and reached the entrance of the narrow alleyway. She stood between the two towering walls, but the man was nowhere to be seen. A part of her thought that this was odd. She had never seen anyone pass down this alleyway before, and she had walked to the warehouse everyday for over a week now. The only thing different about this morning was that she had spotted Clara up ahead.

Eyes darting around nervously, Ariadne left the alleyway and walked into the warehouse. Arthur was already in, and was just talking to Clara before smiling invitingly at Ariadne.

"Any news of Eames?" Ariadne asked, wrapping her arms around herself; the sleeves of her sweater were like gloves around her hands.

At her question, that neutral expression took over Arthur's features again, and Ariadne's heart throbbed a little. "No. Nothing."

Clara was watching them warily. Ariadne caught her eye. "I just saw something strange," she told Clara.

"What is it?"

"I'm...I'm not sure if I'm just feeling a little paranoid 'cus of Eames, but I saw a guy outside the warehouse today." She gulped. "I think he was following you."

Arthur stood up immediately. "When did you see him?"

"Like, just now. Five minutes ago-"

But Arthur was already dashing across the room and out of the warehouse. Before his suited figure disappeared, both Ariadne and Clara saw a flash of a gun hilt by his waist.

"That's odd," Clara muttered, and Ariadne saw a trickle of fear cloud her eyes. "Was a guy really following me?"

Ariadne hesitated, then nodded, and Clara shivered.

After a quick minute, Arthur returned. "Didn't see anyone," he stated, sitting back down.

"I'm sorry," Ariadne blurted, "I didn't mean to worry you."

"No. It's okay. It's good, actually. Now at least we know someone's definitely onto us. They may be responsible for Eames." Arthur was visibly brooding, and that just made Ariadne sicker.

"I'm not sure. It might've been a random guy."

Arthur peered up at her, then half-shrugged. "Better safe than sorry."

* * *

_Clara sat all alone in the middle of Dom's backyard. This in itself wasn't strange; she often visited his house - especially his generous garden - to share their dreams or to learn something new from Arthur or Eames (_don't think, don't remember). _But one look into Dom's eyes when she had arrived on his doorstep that day was all it took to tell him that she really didn't know where else to go, and that she didn't need to talk. And, as always, Cobb was warm and far-removed in helping her. He had showed her to his backyard and left her alone._

_She supposed a part of her loved Dom. It was a complicated and simple kind of love. The sort of love you might feel for a guardian or a brother, but it wasn't too far off from the type of affection she had felt for one of her teachers back in school. It was the sort of doting, unconditional type of affection. She couldn't quite understand it - she never had - but it didn't matter. He was there in her life, and that was that. She wasn't stupid enough to make everything fall apart._

"_Claaara!" came a squeaky little girl's voice, carrying itself with ease across the grass like a butterfly._

_Clara smiled as she spotted Mal standing on the back porch, with the two years old Phillipa cradled in her arms. "Hey," she greeted them softly, trying to infuse some light into her voice._

"_What are you doing here, Clara?" Mal asked, walking over the grass in her bare feet. She set Phillipa down lovingly and let the toddler wander a few steps around them. Mal sat herself next to Clara._

"_Just needed to clear my head a bit," Clara confessed, feeling a little intrusive._

_As if she was reading her thoughts, Mal asked, "And you needed to come to my house to do that?"_

_Clara blushed. "Sorry..." Mal had always made her feel foolish and clumsy. Maybe it was her smooth, accented voice, or her electric blue eyes that gazed unwaveringly past those dark locks. "It's just - er - peaceful here. I-I can leave if you want-"_

"_Don't be stupid. You are welcome here." She leaned back, hands on the grass, and smiled coyly. "You are stuck on Eames."_

_Clara picked at her collarbone. Urgent kisses, papers crumbling underneath them. "It's not like that."_

"_There is no use in denying it, Clara. You cannot hide these things from me," she chuckled, the sound like pebbles skipping over a forbidding lake. "I can tell."_

"_How?" Clara was mystified._

_Mal shrugged nonchalantly. "I cannot explain it. But I can see you are angry with him. You want him to come back from this job."_

_Clara let out a rough sigh. "He said he'd be back last Thursday. It's been more than a week."_

"_You are worried?"_

"_About him?" Clara laughed (painfully). "No."_

_Mal's voice was suddenly poisonous."Do not lie at my house."_

"_I'm sorry."_

_Mal tilted her own chin up. "You are afraid to show it."_

_Clara could only stare at the entrancing woman. "Excuse me?"_

_Mal smiled again, her eyes like scalding, surgical daggers dissecting her thoughts. "Do not be scared to show him how you care. If you cannot show him how you feel, then what would be the point in trying?"_

"_Well, maybe I'm not trying," Clara said waspishly as a bubble of courage swam to the surface. She did not like how Mal could manipulate her like this, as though her soul was nothing but a plaything to her. "Maybe I've just given up."_

_Mal didn't even blink. "Of course you are trying. You are not strong enough to forget, to leave him, so you try, regardless of how he acts and how you feel. You try, because that is the only thing you can do."_

_Clara tried to defend herself one last time. "I don't love him, Mal."_

_Mal smiled knowingly. "I never said you did."_

_The older woman stood up and beckoned for Phillipa to take her hand. The toddler waddled over to her mother and hugged her leg. They made to return to the house._

"_Oh, one more thing," Mal said, facing Clara once again, her tone like honey, "Dom is a married man. Please do not forget that." She waited for something, then smiled. "We are thinking of having another child. A boy."_

"_That's-" Clara realized she had stopped breathing. She swallowed. "That's lovely."_

The warehouse doors creaked open with an alarming screech.

Clara bolted out of the old deck chair she had been sitting on. She glanced instinctively at her watch. Five past three. Ariadne and Arthur jumped to their feet close by. All three stared at the doors as they swung open. Clara saw Arthur's hand drift to the gun on his belt.

"We're home," sang a deep voice, and two men appeared in the wide doorway.

"Eames," Arthur murmured in a carrying whisper, and went up to the pair.

Clara followed - Ariadne close by her heels - feeling relief and pent-up frustration burst through her. She glared at Eames' broad back as he dumped his bag on a chair. Unable to help herself, she fired, "What the hell took you so long? We thought something - oh my God!"

Upon hearing her first few words, Eames had faced her and turned toward the light. The overhead bulbs revealed his usual stubbled face, but it was now accompanied by a wide gash on his forehead, just above his left eyebrow. It was bruised and slightly swollen, and gave the impression that blood might pour from the scabbed wound any moment. It had a murky brown and violet complexion.

It was heart-wrenching.

"Eames, _Jesus Christ_, what happened to you?" Arthur demanded while Ariadne clapped a hand over her mouth, eyes wide and staring at Eames.

"It was my fault," said the burly man who had followed Eames inside. This had to be Yusuf. His bearded face showed guilt and nerves. "We were planning to meet at my workshop, like before, but one of my apprentices gave us away for a large sum of money." He sighed heavily. "COBOL Engineering still wants revenge. They've heard of the two of us aiding Saito's company."

"Wait, COBOL's tailing Eames?" Ariadne inquired. "But I thought-"

"Saito may have done enough to secure Cobb's and my safety," said Arthur darkly, "but it looks like COBOL's hunting down anyone else who helped Saito's company with the Fischer job."

"And hence, one of their goons gave me a good beating for it before we managed to run away," Eames supplied, gesturing at his forehead with a bit of a grin. "They were standing guard at the airport, so we had to wait them out. We got onto another flight the next day." His eyes met Clara's. "Sorry for keeping you waiting, love."

Clara had taken none of it in. All she could see, all she could think about, was that protruding blaze of dark red above his stormy eye. It did not belong there. She was choking on the sight.

"Clara?"

She shook herself out of it and broke into a shaky smile. "Welcome back."

**AN: Please leave a review! :')**


	11. Chapter 11

**AN: Again, sorry for the two-week wait. I just had mock exams, which turned out all right, but could've been better and I'm just argh stressed at the moment :'( Hope this chapter makes up for my absence!**

**Disclaimer: _Inception _belongs to Christopher Nolan and Warner Bros.**

_**The Absolute Basic**_

**Chapter Eleven**

They pulled out a bunch of chairs and sofas and arranged them in a small circle, close to the table with the majority of their notes. A few model buildings that Ariadne had produced lay on the table beside them, as if participating in their discussions. The team sat back in their chairs and settled down, feeling at long last that they were all together for the first time and that this job - this Inception - was actually possible.

Eames was walking around them, handing out copies of his research as well as news clippings or any other relevant information he had collected. He gave Clara his last copy with a surprisingly calm smile.

Her eyes hadn't managed to leave his face yet, not since the moment he had walked in. He tried to maintain a laidback composure about the aching bruise on his forehead. He couldn't even remember exactly what had happened. Maybe the bastards - who had been waiting inside Yusuf's workshop that day - had slammed him against the wall as he had tried to get away...or had they taken a swing at his head with a bat? Eames grimaced a little at the dull throbbing, though he was sure the swelling scab looked worse than it actually was.

He fell back into a desk chair and propped his foot on his knee, addressing the group, "I managed to look into Trollope's daily life. He's a man with strong opinions and very clear personal values about his career and his life. If we're going ahead with this, we need to plant it deep enough."

Yusuf smiled confidently. "Going deeper will not be a problem, as you already know."

"Good man, Yusuf," chuckled Eames. "Anyway, I studied Trollope's ex-wife and her behaviour. She's much more mild-mannered and, in general, a softer individual. And even though she's determined to independently run her own leisure company, she still calls in to ask for advice from her ex-husband."

"How long have they been separated for?" asked Arthur.

Eames flipped to the right page. "A little over six years. But as far as I can tell the man still feels for her. He has a photo of her on his desk, and another photo of the whole family together."

"Interesting. What else have you got?"

"Daniel Tuck. Trollope's best friend from when they were in high school. In the few days I observed Trollope I noticed he would forget whatever work was at hand to help out his best mate. So I decided to follow Tuck as well. A very charismatic character, full of life but apparently a good listener, too. No doubt he must have helped Trollope through the divorce."

"Do you have enough to use both of them in the dreams?" Clara asked, legs crossed and eyes pointed at him. "If need be?"

Eames nodded. "Of course." He tapped the lapel on his jacket. "Hidden camera. I have footage of all three of them. And they're not exactly media-shy either. Have you guys come up with the idea yet?"

"We were thinking," Ariadne started, "about going with what you said and using the emotions from the divorce. If he still really loves his wife, maybe he would listen to her in the dreams. Perhaps if you pretended to be his wife and told him to go with the merger, then maybe he would listen."

"Planting an idea using his wife would only work if his subconscious creates a projection of her," Arthur interrupted. "If we got Eames to just pretend to be his wife, the idea wouldn't catch. Trollope has to think of the idea himself."

"We could still use her, though," Ariadne insisted, leaning forward on her chair. "After all, the first stage of our dream is going to be the seaside resort, similar to their honeymoon spot. Maybe on that first level, Eames could talk to him as his wife and ask about his job. That way we can bring out both his feelings for her and his dilemma about the two hotels."

"That could work," Clara said slowly, apparently deep in thought. "Yes, we need to suggest those heartbroken feelings on the first level. Then perhaps his subconscious would create a projection of Tuck, since he would want someone to talk to afterwards."

"Remember how we broke up Browning's relationship with Fischer Jr.?" Eames suddenly interjected. "And how that led to him fixing his relationship with his father? Maybe, if we hinted in the dream that Trollope's ex-wife was seeing Tuck, then Trollope might feel the need to fight for this woman he still loves."

"You want to put both relationships in jeopardy?" Clara stared at him as though he was mad.

Eames fanned his hands out, eyes turning to her. "Hear me out. We need Trollope to agree to let his hotel Dynasty work with Grand Empark Resorts, right?"

"Yes..." Clara didn't look ready to be convinced, but Eames carried on anyway..

"So, we bring up this merger problem in conversation between him and his ex-wife, which would be me. He talks with a projection of his best friend afterwards, to try and sort through all this career and love life bullshit. On the second level, we manipulate him into believing that his best friend is seeing his ex-wife. His subconscious catches on, and his projections will reflect his suspicions. He gets mad at his mate and pushes him away, and turns to the one woman he loves in his life and begs for her to come back to him. On the third level-"

"He makes the connection between the problem of his love life and his career," Arthur finished, his hand stroking his chin in thought. "Ahh, I see. Very ingenuitive."

"Why thank you, Arthur. I knew you would understand."

"Wait, what?" Clara demanded, glaring between them both; Ariadne and Yusuf looked equally confused. "I don't get it."

Eames sighed. "Basically, we plant the idea into his mind that he needs to work with people in order to be happy and successful. His personality goes against him co-operating with others well, but - if we do this right - Trollope will change his ways for the better and decide to work with Empark Resorts."

"We suggest this idea through his ex-wife," Arthur supplied, helping to explain the idea in his own brisk, precise way. "She has to tell him that he mustn't be afraid to work with her. In the dream, we can apply this idea to the Empark people."

"That...that's quite sound, actually," Yusuf said, looking impressed.

But Clara was still sceptical. "It's a good idea, but it's not good enough. Working with people...that's still much too dependent on political and subjective views. Especially when we apply it to his work life." She lapsed into silence, then said: "What about trust?"

Arthur glanced at her. "What about it?"

"Trust," Clara repeated, and her eyes lit up with a fresh fervour. "Don't be afraid to trust. Surely that's one of his major flaws. That should be the idea! I mean, after all this time, his ex-wife still calls him for advice. She obviously trusts him, so in the dreams maybe she can tell him that he should trust her just as she trusts him."

"That would contradict his feelings about Tuck, though," Eames countered. "His trust for that man would be shattered by the second level. He'd be less willing to trust, if anything."

"True...but we can fix the best friend relationship. Maybe Tuck can play match-maker in the dreams, pretending that he's going out with Trollope's ex-wife just to make the man jealous." Clara smiled. "Once Trollope finds out his mate was just helping him, I bet he'd be forgiven. And that would actually enforce the idea: despite the initial shock and twists, in the end, trust is always rewardable."

"Are you sure about that?" asked Eames.

Clara shrugged. "Judging from what you're telling us, the two men are pretty close. I'd say Trollope would appreciate what his best friend would be doing for him."

"Even if he finds out Tuck was messing with him all through the dreams?"

"Yes."

"So we've got it!" Ariadne said finally, clapping her hands together. "Don't be afraid to trust. Perfect."

"What about all those political influences?" asked Yusuf.

Clara shook her head. "Trust. That's something much more personal; emotional. It's more of an instinct instead of a thought." She took a deep breath, then beamed. "It'll work. I know it."

"Good job, everyone," Arthur said graciously, with the slightest hint of a laugh in his otherwise smooth voice. Yusuf and Ariadne exchanged gleeful looks.

Clara's eyes landed on Eames, and he grinned back at her, feeling as if they had just run a hundred miles and were congratulating each other for their achievement. He knew that there was still much more to come after such a mediocre meeting, but her expression - her aura - was infectious. He would never tell her, but he really had missed that smile in Chicago.

Hell, he had missed her smile for the last four years.

* * *

_Another quiet day in Dom's house. It was springtime, and his backyard was bursting with the peeping faces of flowers and the constant chirping of small creatures. The Cobbs' living room was bathed in warm sunlight, and those dazzling rays spilled onto the four limp bodies on the floor. Each had a needle protruding from their wrist, leading to a narrow, long tube that fed back into an opened metal suitcase._

_The four bodies were quite still, and anyone who happened to look in on them would have exclaimed that they were all dead, perhaps of drug abuse or of some other potion running through their veins. But, once you got past that initial shock, you would see that, yes, they were still breathing, and, yes, very much alive._

_Abruptly, the eyes of the young woman flickered open. She inhaled quietly, then sat up and fiddled with the small ornament on her necklace. A metal conch shell. Tentatively, she brought it to her ear, and waited. The hand holding the tiny shell was trembling._

_Silence._

_The woman let out another sigh, this time more composed. No music, not anything. This was real. Her fingers slackened on the shell._

"_Clara."_

_Clara froze. Her head whipped up, then down again. _What the hell? _She stared at the conch shell, her heart suddenly loud and daunting._

_Then she turned to look at one of the men lying on the floor. The man in question was sound asleep, still lost in those deep, murky layers of the dream._

But then, how could...

_Clara brought the shell closer to her ear and held her breath. She was imagining things. Hallucinating. One often hallucinated after waking from a dream._

_This time, the silence was absolute._

_But she could've sworn to have heard-_

"Eames?"

The man glanced up from the desk chair. He hadn't moved from his spot, and Clara had been watching him ever since they had finished deciding on the idea. Ariadne and Yusuf were catching up, talking over cups of coffee, and Arthur had left the warehouse some time ago to do whatever he needed to do. It was for the better that Arthur wasn't around. Clara didn't want him to see her at her weakest: when she was with Eames.

She brushed those worrying thoughts aside. Eames was already smiling at her. "Hello. Can I help you?"

Clara sighed, and showed him the first aid kit in her hands. "Actually, I was hoping to help _you_." She gestured. "Your forehead. It looks bad."

Eames looked rather thrown by her attention. "Oh," he just about managed, then that smile returned "Playing nurse, are we? Kinky."

Clara frowned darkly, and some dreary creature in her chest growled in disapproval. His flirtatious words felt like the stinging bite of nettles. "Take it or leave it, Eames."

"Sorry." He looked it.

Muttering a little to herself, Clara sat on the chair next to his and opened the small box in her hands. She took out a bottle of antiseptic, then opened a packet of clean cotton pads. "How did you get hurt?" she asked, not wanting the air around them to fall heavy with silence.

The stubbled man shrugged, and he flicked through a page of notes, written out in his scrawled, messy handwriting. "Not really sure. It was all a big certainly wasn't expecting to be handed in by one of his students."

"That's a shame," Clara muttered, pouring a little antiseptic on the cotton pad.

"Yeah. He really trusts his apprentices."

"Hold still." Clara reached up to apply the antiseptic.

"Funny how trust does things to people," said Eames, and it took everything in Clara to avert her gaze from his dark eyes as she leaned in to dab the cotton pad over his forehead. They were close - very close - and they both knew it, and they could both feel the words that were almost said but were, inevitably, held back. Clara's hand was shaking by the smallest degree, and she hoped Eames wouldn't be able to tell.

Eames let out a little hiss. "It stings."

Clara gave a weak, lopsided smile. "Sorry." She used another cotton ball to put on some anti-inflammatory cream over the bruised area.

As she applied the cream, a lock of his dark hair fell into his eyes. She brushed it away with her other hand, and her fingers skimmed over his warm skin and delved into the roots of his hair. The gesture was so familiar and so tender that she actually stopped moving.

"Thanks." The gentle utterance of that one word on her wrist made her shiver.

Clara caught her breath and tried to look away. "No problem."

She busied herself by tidying up the first aid kit, putting the unused cotton balls away, checking that she hadn't dropped anything...

"I don't hate you."

Eames looked even more surprised than she felt. "I'm sorry?" he asked.

Clara set the box aside and folded her arms. She stared at the floor. "I don't hate you, so don't think that I do. I know I used to say that a lot, but it's been a long time, and I don't feel the same way now."

Eames was quiet for a few seconds, and Clara willed him to at least say something. Anything.

"Arthur told you to say that, didn't he?" he finally asked. There was nothing in his voice.

Clara shrugged. "I was going to have to tell you at some point."

"And why's that?"

"Because we're being stupid. And everyone is onto us. Arthur, Ariadne, Dom if he could see us..."

"I guess they would be. They're worried about the job."

Clara gave him a meaningful look. "Then let's stop them from worrying. Can we just..." she struggled for the right words, "put it behind us?"

Eames shifted uncomfortably. "Well, people don't just move on from their pasts."

Clara shot him a dangerous glance. "It's been four years-"

"Four years with no explanations," Eames murmured, flexing his fingers and studying the back of his hand. "No words, no talk, no nothing. You literally walked out the door and we never saw you again."

And her mind was screaming at her to tell him the truth. But she kept seeing his face from before, from a time when she did hate him and his voice and his values. So angry words spilled out, despite the instant regret she felt, "You don't deserve an explanation, not after the way you treated me." She stood up.

"If this is about the times that we had sex," Eames seethed bluntly, and Clara's stomach lurched, "then I've told you before, grow up and move on." He was standing up as well and blocking her way.

"You treated me like shit," Clara spat at him.

Eames flinched, but remained in front of her. "You didn't complain. Not until a long while later. And you know what?" Eames went on, cutting across Clara, "I think you wanted me to use you. You just wanted my attention, because you were just a little girl and you felt something for me."

Clara stared at him.

"Admit it," Eames grunted.

"Maybe," Clara replied lowly. "Maybe I will. One day." She took a step toward him, tilting her head up to glare into his face. "But only if _you _can admit that you were playing your little mind games on me," she growled in an undertone, "and that you wanted to see just how far you could push me before you pushed me away completely; and that you actually _did _have feelings for me after you had your fill, but you were just too _fucking_ stupid to accept it." She took a sharp breath, her heart stammering frightfully, yet she couldn't stop herself now. "If you can admit to those things first, Eames, then I'll admit to mine. _Can you_?"

Tick, tock.

"I didn't think so." Clara pushed past him, crestfallen and disappointed.

**AN: Thank you so much for reading; please review! :')**


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